I wished for my oil pastels, needing just one color—the red of her hair. But the color didn’t exist. Nothing could be quite right—not quite red, not quite orange. Not burgundy, nor was it copper. It was a singularity, a thing that only existed in her. She was a tree aflame with autumn. The strike of a match, embers and sparks. A sunset that set the sky on fire.

Since we’d parted ways, she’d slipped in and out of my thoughts. Quietly, gently, she would be there in the replay of a moment, the vision of her at one point or another through our meeting. But always, my thoughts came back to this moment, when I’d seen her standing in front of the building like a feather on black sand.

I’d had to draw her. It was my only hope to get her out of my head.

It was said that everyone was the hero of their own story, and the reason was context. Everyone, regardless of honesty or truth, showed people what they wanted to see. In that, Lila was right. But every heart had a story to tell. A reason. A series of events that, when strung together in the right order, created a person’s self, their motivation and fears.

For instance, take my brother Luke. As the baby in our indelicate family, he was naturally the family jester, the exhibitionist, the one who would do anything for a laugh, because how else would anyone see him in the Bennet fray? Jett and Laney were twins, but Laney had adopted the role of the eldest. She was a force of nature, headstrong and prickly as she was loving and giving, especially when it came to our family. And Jett was her converse—quieter, gentler with a penchant for self-sacrifice—because no one could compete with Laney.

Granted, Jett could still beat the shit out of me, but that was just Bennet conditioning. One had to be able to scrap with five children so close in age.

Marcus, the middle child, was reserved. Where Jett and Laney had each other and Luke and I were an inseparable unit, Marcus had gotten lost in the shuffle and decided that was fine by him. He retreated to books, was the silent partner to my father, the two of them content to never make a sound when the rest of us couldn’t shut up.

And then, there was me.