The girl walks into the bedroom. It's quiet, and she finds herself holding her breath, afraid that any noise will be an intrusion. A moment passes, and the silence pulsing in the girl's ears becomes less than silent. The rough etching of a charcoal pencil echoes through the room.
The other one tucks her dark hair behind her ear and doesn't look up. The girl sits on the very edge of the bed, feeling her legs shake. She wants to reach out and touch, and she's afraid that her heart is about to burst out of her chest. She looks at the sketch on the other one's lap. The other one still has her skinny arm covering it, the charcoal scratching across the rough paper.
The first word that comes to mind is distrust. Something in the girl's chest tightens painfully. She continues to watch the other one sketch, the movements almost angry.
"It's done," the other one finally says, and her voice is lower than the girl remembers it. She lifts the drawing and the light pouring in the window illuminates