She makes someone else's world colorful but hers is grey.
Whenever she draws in the middle of spring afternoon, she tends to whispers to the singing bird on her shoulder.
"For whom I draw still hasn't been decided, and I wish to meet my muse soon after the season's end."
Two days after spring.
She's being asked to attend her friend's rehearsal.
A pair of her brown eyes is glued to the pianist as his melody hits her right. His fingers gracefully dance in tuts, faster than anyone's breathe, but not so fast compared to Kyra's hand sketching him.
"I find my muse." She whispers in happiness. Gaze falls to the quick sketch on her hand.
She asks her friend about his name, eyes sparkles with love, so pure, so honest.
"His name is Will. He's special like you."
Her brows furrow in confusion as she skips a heartbeat.