She looked at his hands. They were almost translucent, and his blue veins were prominent. It's not that they were grotesque - far from it, in fact. She found them aesthetically pleasing. She wanted to draw them. She wanted to touch them. But she knew she lacked the ability to paint him in all his beauty, protruding bones and all. She knew that no matter how hard she tried, she would never recreate the creases in his skin with the brush. Whichever paint she used, whether it be watercolour or acrylic, she could never do his limbs justice.

He was too far away. He sat on the other side of the maths classroom from her, and it didn't help that she was shortsighted. She could only imagine the details, and join the list of artists who cover white lies in coloured paint.