Dylan didn’t reply immediately. He lowered his head and glanced off sideways for half a moment before turning back to me. “So what were you drawing today?” he asked abruptly. He looked down at me with those emerald eyes that inevitably melted every thought in my head.
“Mythical creatures,” I replied haltingly. Luckily, I’d rehearsed my answer, otherwise I’d have probably just have stood there remembering how to breathe. “I’m working on a series of whimsical stuff.”
Dylan nodded. “I bet you are really talented.” He said it like it was an undeniable fact.
I shrugged. I heard that before, but didn’t believe it for a second. Every time I went to a museum or looked at the Renoirs and Van Goghs and Vermeers online, I knew my measly talent wasn’t in the same galaxy as the artists who really had talent.
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