Frustrated, Josie pulled herself from the floor and plodded to the bathroom. She showered and dressed and awaited Alex’s arrival. As she sat and stared at the blank paper, her leg bounced nervously. She glanced at the kitchen drawer holding her escape and back to her sketchpad. She decided she would power through this on her own.

She almost ignored the pounding at the door, delighted at the idea of messing with Alex. When the sound shot through her apartment again, she decided that she’d better put him out of his misery before he destroyed the door completely. Josie unlocked and opened the door, only to find Tristan standing there, fist poised to knock again. She whimpered, her pencil clattering to the floor. Relief flooded her body along with an inclination to attach herself to him and never let go.

“Josie, please,” he whispered, his voice scratchy and thick.

He wasn’t sure what he was begging for. He only knew that whatever it was lay within her. Nodding, she took his hand and pulled him inside, closing the door behind them. Silently, reverently, she sat him down on her sofa and crawled into his lap. Tristan’s arms embraced her and crushed her to his body, molding them into one form. Her head lay tucked on his shoulder. She’d never felt so safe.

In the quiet space of the apartment, Tristan simply held Josie. He surrounded her with himself, creating a shield between the evil outside world and the beautiful wounded girl. He concentrated on the bare skin of her arms beneath his fingertips, inhaling deeply just to breathe her in. This moment, imagined so many times, had been lacking in power compared to reality. Without even trying, without any conditions, this girl owned him.

Just after midnight, Alex found the couple curled into each other in the corner of Josie’s couch. Even as they slept, their possessive fingers dug into the other’s flesh. He’d been angry when he found her door unlocked again and was about to scold her as if she were a forgetful child, but when he spotted the sight before him, he understood.

Alex had never seen Josie so peaceful, so free from the darkness that permanently loomed over her. Even without an introduction, he recognized Tristan. He knew no one else could invade Josie’s space like that. He left the pizza box on her table and locked the door behind him.

As he kicked Mrs. Thompson’s brainless cat from his door, he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of sadness. With Tristan around, he feared that Josie wouldn’t need him anymore. He had served his purpose and he’d be dismissed like one of her crumpled drawings. Perhaps, one day, someone would unfold him, smooth out his wrinkles, and hang him up anyway.

Tristan woke in the early hours of the morning, his legs and arms aching from the position he’d slept in. He looked at Josie’s sleeping face and was reminded of the young innocence that was McKenzi’s. It was easier to see now that she was unconscious and defenseless. Needing the bathroom, he shifted over and left her to finish her rest.

He stretched his arms high above his head, bending and twisting to bring circulation back to his limbs. He relieved himself and threw some water on his face. The liquid dotted his skin with crystal-like drops. It clung to his eyelashes, matting them together, and dripped from the scruff of his chin, taking with it the grunge from the night before. The circles beneath his eyes were nearly invisible. He looked refreshed in a way that made him feel like a fool for staying away. With Josie cradled in his arms, he’d slept better than he had in years. They’d both waved their white flags and given in to the gravity pulling them together.

It had always been this way for them. Even in grade school, they would argue over something silly, swearing off their friendship forever. By recess, they’d be huddled together beneath the monkey bars, whispering apologies. McKenzi had been more stubborn than Tristan, but she always came back to him.

Tristan used the bottom of his T-shirt to pat his face dry. He looked for an extra toothbrush, but all he found were tampons, charcoal pencils, and paint markers in her medicine cabinet. He pushed the toothpaste around with his finger as best he could and rinsed.

There was only one door besides the bathroom, and as Tristan let himself inside, he had no idea what he’d find. At first it was too dark to see anything, but his eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light coming through the curtain. There was a mattress on the floor, tucked into the farthest corner of the room. No bedding or pillows topped it. Haphazard stacks of spray-paint cans lined the perimeter of the room, along with sketchpads and a few articles of clothing.

He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain, flooding the room with daylight. Tristan gasped. Pencil and charcoal sketches covered every inch of wall from ceiling to floor. He turned, scanning the rest of the room and finding each wall plastered in the same way.

“Holy shit,” Tristan whispered.

A familiar face drew him in as he stepped to the wall for closer inspection. A young boy of eleven or twelve stared back at him, his smile a bit higher on one side. Tristan ran his index finger over the lines of his baby face, reflecting the crooked grin.

“Tristan?” Josie’s voiced called out. He spun to find her displaying a defensive posture, leaning against the doorframe. “What are you doing in here?”

“Just looking,” he answered.

“These are private.”

He nodded, leaving a beat of silence in case she wanted to continue. She didn’t.

“You drew these?”

Josie nodded.

“You don’t know who they are, do you?” he asked.

Her scowl disappeared as she shifted from foot to foot. She refused to meet his eyes.

“No, but I dream about them. I see nothing else when I sleep. Just these faces,” she answered, pressing her palm to her forehead.

Tristan walked to her and pulled her inside the room. He placed Josie in front of his body, facing the middle of the largest wall.

“This,” he said, pointing to the wild-haired boy, “is me.” Josie gasped, her hand flying to cover her mouth. “Your shading is amazing, you even included my eyebrow scar.” Tristan took a step sideways and brought Josie with him. “This one here is your mom. She was always laughing like that. The one above her is your dad. He was the chief of police in Gretna.”

Tristan glanced over her shoulder to see her trembling fingers still covering her mouth and her other arm wrapped around her waist. He slid his hands around her, holding Josie to his chest for support. Even though she had no conscious recollection of her childhood, she’d always had these faces with her. After a minute of silence and stuttered breaths, she finally spoke.

“She was beautiful,” Josie said, running her fingers over her mother’s face.

“Yes, she was.”

“I can’t believe my dad had that beard,” she said finally, smiling as her eyes scanned the drawings. “I look like him.”

Tristan squeezed her tighter in confirmation. Josie took a step closer to Tristan’s sketch now, scrutinizing the curve of his chin and weight of his smile.

“I should have seen it sooner. Your smile is just the same,” she whispered.

Tristan kissed the side of her neck and she hummed in satisfaction. Josie spun in his arms and kissed his lips. She lacked the verbal ability to thank him otherwise, so she stuck to what she was good at, pouring all of herself into that kiss.

It had never felt like this for either of them, and somehow they knew that it never would again. When the intensity became overwhelming, they pulled away.

“Tell me about the rest of them,” she said.

He nodded and pointed her back toward the wall.

An hour later, after each drawing had been identified, they emerged. Josie felt lighter, like her shoulders could stand a little taller now. These faces had haunted her for so long she’d begun to resent them. But not anymore. Now she knew these were the people who had been most important to her. These had been the ones to love her, to mold her and, in Tristan’s case, eventually to mourn her. It had always felt like Josie versus the world, but in reality she’d never been alone.