The girl tossed her backpack against the wall to have it bounce harmlessly on her bed. She sat at her desk, feeling creative. After she took a look at her previous works, she set out to gather the supplies she would need to make this next masterpiece.

She picked up her favorite pencil. It had been worn down from its full length to a small stub. The girl smiled, knowing that the faithful instrument would serve her well.

How tall would he be…? she thought, tapping her thumbnail against her front teeth. She stopped from a moment. The tapping was a nervous habit inherited from her mother. She shook her head and thought.

She looked to the wall of the other drawings she had made. That would be a good reference point. She began to draw the outline of a person. A man, about eighteen years old. She started with his legs. Tall. Clad in baggy jeans, with a small device at his belt, as well as several small balls attached directly to it. The artist got disgruntled at the drawing, crumpled it up and tossed it into the trash.

She began again. This time, drawing his dark dress shoes. She followed up with freshly ironed dress slacks. Black. She began to draw his torso. She gave him broad shoulders to rest her head on. A strong chest to comfort her. She gave him powerful arms, like those belonging to his father. She drew on him a dress coat. Again, frustrated with her work, she tossed it into the trash.

She gave him tall boots this time. Then, she started over again.

Sneakers would work well, she decided. Instead of the failed jeans from before, she put him in khakis. She drew a warm coat on his shoulders, still retaining the broad definition she had given them before.

She made sure to draw his hands gently. Not like those of his sister. His hands would not be clad in gloves, so she could feel his palm against her face when he caught her tears.

She took a moment to look out the window. She missed him. It had been almost a week since he left with his friends, to continue their adventure. That didn't make her feel better. She looked forward to the calls her new friends would make to the center. Of course, she didn't want to talk to all of them. And she knew they could tell. Perhaps due to that, always and without fail, they would let her speak with him. He who was too precious to name. Even though he seemed not to know, she knew he did. He was too observant to ignore that. Ignore her. His playing dumb the day he left must have been a ploy to get his sister and her boyfriend off his case, right?

Then why didn't he seem to say things that would be in line with those feelings? Why did he always talk to her as if she was just a friend he had met on his adventure? Thinking like this always made her nervous, and she found herself tapping her teeth again with her thumbnail.

Shaking it off, she looked to the picture she finished the day they left, which hung next to the window. An older couple stood over them, holding each others hands. The artist and her subject stood beneath them, mirroring their poses in their younger bodies. Above both couples stood a tall, statue of a man with spiked, dark hair and intense, yet calm eyes. She had included herself with them, as part of their team.

There were spots on the drawing. Spots that looked like someone had dripped tiny droplets of water over them. The artist rubbed her eyes. Those droplets had clouded her vision again.

Returning to her drawing, she found that it didn't capture the feeling she was aiming for, so she crumpled it up and tossed it into the overflowing trash bin next to her desk. Picking up her favorite pencil again, she began to draw him, as he was when she last laid eyes on him. A youthful boy whose intelligence, far beyond his years, had charmed her into falling in love with him. He had do know, right?

She smiled as she drew him. His short legs. His narrow, childish shoulders. She scribbled in his hair. As she began to draw on his thick glasses, the lead of her pencil snapped, creating a streak across his youthful face.

She almost swore, degrading her behavior to ways that she had already been set in, but she remembered how he reprimanded her for speaking like that. She instead shed a single tear down her face for him. The tear dripped on the paper, causing the artist to look down. She crumpled up the paper and dried her eyes on the end of her dress.

I wonder where he is? she asked no one in particular. She worried about if he was okay. He told her stories about how he and his sister wouldn't get along. She sighed, unable to relate, due to being an only child. She sometimes wondered if her parents would have another, but reached the conclusion long ago that there would be no additions to the family as long as they lived in that tiny house.

She took out a new piece of paper, determined to draw him correctly this time. She liked the look of the sneakers and the khaki pants, so she drew those back on. Instead of drawing a coat, though, she drew the shirt he wore that day on him, stylizing it a bit by making the front button down, and hanging open, revealing a white wife beater clinging tightly to his muscular physic. She sketched his arms, making them lithe, and not too muscular. She left one of his hands open towards the middle of the page. She began to draw his face. His glasses sitting on the end of his nose, his dark eyes looking above the rims to see who he was looking at. She added the hair. She kept it in the same style he wore it in now, but windswept it, the wind blowing it into his face. She smiled at the finished product, proud of her work. She had captured everything she loved about him in that drawing. He carried his air of intellect, while showing his fun-loving side.

And then, to finish her drawing, she began to draw a woman, also about eighteen years old, reaching out to his outstretched hand. The wind blew against her long dress, giving her a look suitable for a movie poster. She drew slender legs going up into the dress, and allowed the dress to enshroud her creation. She topped off the bell of the dress, and began to go up the midsection, making sure to give the woman an hourglass shape. She filled out the dress in the places that would make teenage boys go wild, but kept the dress modestly covering such features. Her arms were long and delicate, shaped fingernails on each hand. Her face was bright with love for the man who reached out to her. Her long, dark, flowing hair billowed in the wind. She made sure to make their eyes meet. That was important.

"Cyndi!" her mother called from downstairs. "Max is on the phone!"

Immediately she stopped and looked at her drawing. It wasn't colored. But now wasn't the time. He waited for her. He wanted to speak to her.

She left the reason the drawing was colorless up to interpretation.

People who have read "May's Crush" know who Cyndi is. For those of you who don't care enough/aren't Advanceshippers and will thus not like the story, Cyndi is an OC from that story who develops feelings for Max. Those of you who have read May's Crush, the sequel should start on American Thanksgiving (November 23, 2006).

I wanted to write a story from her viewpoint, perhaps to find out what she's like more.