I approached the table, still naked, though the awareness of my nudity had transformed from discomfort to a strange sense of power.
Ezra held out a box of matches to me, his expression unreadable. "Destroy it."
I stared at him in confusion. "What?"
"The drawing. Destroy it." His eyes held mine, challenging. "You destroy your own work, attacking it when it comes too close to revealing what lives inside you. Now I want you to destroy my work, my vision of you."
I took the matches with unsteady hands, looking down at the portrait. It was masterful, possibly the most honest depiction of me that had ever existed. The thought of reducing it to ash filled me with a strange reluctance.
"Why?" I asked, echoing my earlier question.
"Because destruction can be a form of preservation," he replied. "Because it can be surrender."
As I hesitated, he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "Do you know what happens to a butterfly that never leaves its chrysalis? It dies, trapped in the very shell meant to protect its transformation. Your fear has become your chrysalis, Micah. Itonce protected you, but now it confines you. "His hand covered mine, guiding the matchbox open. "Let it go."
I struck a match and lifted it, casting Ezra's features in dramatic shadow. For a moment, I hesitated, the fire trembling between my fingers. Then I lowered the flame to the corner of the drawing.
The canvas caught quickly, and the fire spread. The drawing burned, but the feeling remained. I was free from a cage of my own making.
When only ashes remained on the metal surface of the table, Ezra’s hand curled around the nape of my neck. “How do you feel now?”
“Awake,” I said slowly. “Like all this time, I’ve been…sleepwalking.
"Good boy," he said. "Now you're ready to begin."
Ezra
There is an artto the creation of dependency, a delicate architecture of small intimacies and calculated absences, of perceived rescues from engineered crises. Like all true arts, it requires patience, precision, and a willingness to allow the materials to reveal themselves.
I watched Micah through the window of my office as he crossed the quad, shoulders hunched slightly against the October wind, portfolio clutched to his chest like a shield. Three days since I'd had him stand naked in my studio. Three days of carefully maintained distance. Long enough to create hunger but not so long that he would retreat into the protective shell of shame.
His posture straightened as he approached the Fine Arts building, and he glanced toward my office window. He knew my schedule. Had perhaps timed his crossing of the quad to coincidewith my office hours. The thought pleased me. It was the first evidence that he was beginning to orbit my gravity, not just respond to it.
I stepped back from the window and returned to my desk, smoothing my hand across my tie. When the soft knock came at my door, I allowed a brief pause before responding, establishing the impression that his arrival was unexpected. “Come in.”
Micah stood in the doorway, the same blue shirt from our first meeting accentuating the depth of his eyes, his dark hair slightly tousled from the wind. The vulnerability in his expression was exquisite. Hope mingled with uncertainty, desire tempered by fear of rejection. He carried his portfolio case in one hand, knuckles white with tension.
"Micah," I said, permitting a small smile to warm my features. "This is a pleasant surprise. Please come in."
"I hope I'm not interrupting," he said, hesitating at the threshold.
"Not at all." I gestured to the chair opposite my desk. "Your arrival is a welcome respite."
He entered, closing the door behind him. Micah seated himself in the offered chair with the portfolio resting across his knees.
"I've been working on something," he said, his fingers tapping against the black leather case. "After our session, I couldn't stop thinking about what you said. About destruction as a form of preservation."
"You've created something new?" Micah's work had always possessed a raw potential that set him apart from his peers, but I was curious to see how our first true encounter had affected his artistic expression.
"Yes," he said, then immediately qualified: "Or at least, I started to. I'm not sure it's... finished." His hands movedrestlessly over the portfolio case. "I thought perhaps you could tell me if I'm on the right track."
Ah, how perfect. He wanted validation, and he was seeking it from me. Everything was going according to plan.
I rose from behind my desk, and sat in the chair adjacent to his, close enough that our knees nearly touched. "I'd be honored to see it."
His hands trembled as he unzipped the portfolio and extracted a large drawing rendered in charcoal and unmistakably his own blood. The composition was striking. It was Micah, though abstract. His body hung in darkness, face obscured not by outside forces but by his own hands tearing at his features—revealing not flesh, but a void filled with shards of religious iconography: fragments of crosses, stained glass, torn scripture.
"It's not finished," he repeated, eyes fixed on the drawing rather than meeting my gaze. "I wasn't sure how to complete it without destroying it."
