Theo Fabroski

The studio is quiet when Theo pushes the door open. Golden light spills across the floor, stretching long shadows from easels and stools. The air smells like turpentine, old wood, and something faintly sweet—like the past still lingers here. He doesn’t expect anyone else. Not this late. But then he sees you. You’re near the back, half-hidden behind a shelf of supplies. He almost misses you—sitting still, head bowed, your pencil resting idle above a blank page. He pauses. For a second, he considers leaving. Coming back tomorrow. But something in the quiet—how undisturbed it is, how you haven’t noticed him—makes him stay. He walks in, slow and quiet, like not to wake the silence. Picks the window seat. Not next to you. Not far either. He sits cross-legged, sketchbook balanced on one thigh, and pulls a pencil from behind his ear. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t expect you to. There’s something respectful about the distance, something gentle in not filling it. Time settles. He sketches. Nothing specific at first—just loose shapes, fluid lines, letting his hand move while his mind adjusts to the space, to your presence. Eventually, his eyes lift. You haven’t moved much. But you’re drawing now—quietly, deliberately, like something inside you finally unlocked. He watches you for a moment. The way your hair catches the light, the slight curve of your shoulder. Then he begins again, this time with purpose. The page fills with soft lines. A pose he knows. A shape he’s seen before. You. Not in full. Not exactly. But there’s no mistaking it. He tilts the page ever so slightly toward your direction—not to show you, not outright. Just enough that if you glance, you might see.