Dying felt like sinking into black water — cold, quiet, and suffocating. I still remember the stench of burning tires, the long blare of a horn, and then… nothing but darkness.

When I opened my eyes again, the first thing I noticed was the scent of drawing charcoal. Not the sterile smell of a hospital, nor the damp earth of a grave, but the familiar fragrance of the 4B charcoal pencils I loved so dearly.

“Hey you, did you faint or just fall asleep?”

That voice made my heart stop. Thalia. Beautiful, slender, with long curly hair that made her look like a model. She stood before me wearing a white blouse and denim skirt, her face etched with worry — an expression I had never seen in my previous life, because back then, Thalia was no longer there. She had died during the second semester, in an accident at the college laboratory.

I looked down at my hands. I was wearing fingerless gloves and thick stockings, along with the loose black trousers I always wore. My hand moved up to touch my headscarf — long and flowing, reaching all the way down to my hips. Tucked neatly behind my ear was my trusted 4B pencil, just as it always was.

I was back. I had been given a second chance. And I was here, exactly one week before Thalia was meant to die.

The college art studio hummed with noise — the rustle of paper, the whirring of ceiling fans. I pressed a hand to my chest. I weighed 80 kilograms, stood 170 centimeters tall, and my skin was still dotted with acne across my chin and forehead. Everything was exactly the same as before, yet everything had changed, for this time, I knew exactly what was coming.

“Are you alright?” a male voice asked from beside me.

I turned around and saw Raven Hambaly. Standing at 185 centimeters tall, with broad shoulders and dressed in a plain black shirt, he had a soft warmth to his features, and deep dimples appeared whenever he smiled. In my past life, he had been nothing more than a senior I admired from afar. He graduated early, went on to become a renowned artist, and eventually married another talented painter — never once stopping to speak to me.

But now, here he was, holding out a bottle of mineral water towards me.

“Have a drink. You look quite pale,” he said gently.

I took it from him, and our fingers brushed lightly against each other. In my previous existence, a moment like this would have been nothing but a distant dream.

Thalia pulled a chair over and sat down opposite me. “You must be exhausted. That assignment from Mr. Azman is absolutely insane. Honestly, I feel like crying every time I look at my blank canvas.”

Mr. Azman. The final project. Next week, Thalia would stay late at the studio to finish her work, determined to get everything perfect. But that night, faulty wiring in the storage room at the back would spark a fire. Trapped and surrounded by flames, she wouldn’t make it out alive.

I gripped the pencil tucked in my headscarf so tightly my knuckles turned white. No. Not this time. Not again.

Over the next seven days, I stuck by Thalia’s side like a shadow. I made up every excuse I could think of — asking her to eat with me, to walk home together, even convincing her to work on assignments as a team. Raven seemed confused by my sudden change in behavior, but eventually, he joined us too.

“I’ve never known you to be so keen on group work,” Raven chuckled one afternoon as the three of us sat together at the campus café. “You’re usually holed up alone in some quiet corner, clutching those legendary pencils of yours like they’re your most prized treasure.” He nodded playfully toward the pencil peeking out from my headscarf.

I smiled softly. “I’ve had a change of heart, I suppose. Good friends are far more important than getting straight A’s.”

Thalia wrapped her arm around mine affectionately. “Aww, that’s so sweet! Ever since you fell off that chair the other day, you’ve turned into a completely different person — and I love it!”

Then came the day it was all supposed to happen. At 6 PM, Thalia began packing her things, preparing to stay late to put the final touches on her work.

“You two go on ahead,” she said. “I’ll just spend a little more time here, and then I’ll head home soon.”

My heart felt as though it was about to burst out of my chest. “Don’t do it, Thalia. Let’s come back early tomorrow morning instead. It’s dangerous to stay here alone at night — I heard there was an incident with faulty wiring and a fire not long ago.”

Raven looked up from his sketchbook, nodding in agreement. “She’s right. Besides, the night watchman, Uncle Samad, is known to fall asleep on duty. If anything were to happen, it would be difficult to get help quickly.”

Thalia pouted, looking torn. “But I really want to do well and get a good grade…”

I didn’t waste another second thinking. I reached out and took her hand firmly in mine. “Then I’ll stay with you. If you’re going to be here, I’m staying too. But we’ll work at the tables near the entrance, not anywhere close to that back storage room.”

Finally, she relented. At 8 PM, exactly as I remembered, a loud boom echoed through the building — like the sound of fireworks exploding. Flames burst out from the storage room door, lighting up the darkness, and fire alarms began blaring loudly as students scrambled to run outside in panic.

Thalia’s face turned as white as a sheet, and she clung tightly to my arm, trembling all over. “If I had been in there just now…” She couldn’t even finish her sentence before tears began streaming down her cheeks.

Raven quickly grabbed a fire extinguisher, but the security guards had already arrived, and the fire brigade turned up just ten minutes later. The main studio was saved, but the storage room was left completely charred and destroyed.

Later that night, outside the college building, Thalia held me in a long, tight embrace. Her hair smelled like apple-scented shampoo, a familiar scent that brought back a flood of memories. “How did you know? Why did you try so hard to stop me from going there?” she asked softly.

I couldn’t tell her the truth, of course. I simply patted her back gently. “It was just a gut feeling. I had a terrible dream, and I was so worried something bad might happen.”

Raven stood nearby, and when he noticed me shivering in the cold night air, he walked over and draped his jacket over my shoulders. “Lucky for us, your intuition was spot on. If things had gone differently, I would have lost two of my favorite fellow artists and friends forever.”

From that day onward, everything began to change. Thalia started appreciating every moment we spent together and encouraged both Raven and me to take part in charity art exhibitions. My drawings, which in my past life had only ever been seen by me alone, now began to attract attention and admiration from others.

One evening after class, I found Raven waiting for me by my locker. In his hands, he held a sketchbook, and as he opened it, I saw a beautiful drawing of me — wearing my long headscarf, a pencil tucked behind my ear, completely focused and immersed in my work. Beneath the sketch, he had written: The Studio’s Guardian Angel. Tough on the outside, but kind at heart.

“Why did you draw me?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Raven leaned casually against the lockers, and that charming smile of his made my heart race and my stomach flutter. “Because you saved my best friend’s life that day. And… in a way, you saved me too. If I had lost Thalia, I think I would have given up art and never set foot in this studio again. She was the one who convinced me to join this class in the first place.”

I looked down, nervously playing with the edge of my headscarf. “I didn’t really do anything special.”

“You did more than you know,” he interrupted gently. “You see people, truly see them, even when no one else bothers to look. Even when you feel invisible.” He reached out and carefully tucked a brand-new 4B pencil beside my old one, right at the edge of my headscarf. “For your next masterpiece. This time, why don’t you draw the three of us together? Would that be alright?”

I looked up at him, and he had to bend down slightly — being so tall — just to meet my gaze. In my previous life, I could only ever draw him from a distance, hiding in the shadows. But here, in this second chance, he was standing right beside me, giving me a new pencil, and asking me to capture our bond on paper.

“I’d love to,” I replied, smiling. “But you and Thalia have to be my models, free of charge!”

He laughed, his dimples deepening, and nodded happily. “Deal.”

Suddenly, we heard hurried footsteps and loud shouting from the end of the corridor. “Hey! Don’t leave me behind again! Where are we going, and are we stopping at the café?” Thalia called out as she ran toward us.

Raven and I exchanged a glance before bursting into laughter. This second life wasn’t perfect — I was still 80 kilograms, I still struggled with my appearance, and I still sometimes felt insecure and unworthy. But now, I had my pencils, I had two wonderful friends who truly saw me, and I had a future that I was determined to shape with my own hands.

This time, I swore to myself, I would never let a single moment go to waste.

Last week’s fire at the storage room still felt like a dream. Thalia was a little shaken, but she came out stronger. She was the one who suggested the three of us join the college charity exhibition, themed “Second Breath.”

“Isn’t it ironic?” I said. “We all got a second breath after that night.”

Raven was arranging canvases in the new studio. Ever since the old storage burned down, the college gave us another room—bigger, with wide windows. The evening light poured in beautifully. The smell of oil paint and charcoal had already become the scent of home.

“What are you painting for the exhibition?” Thalia asked, tying her hair into a high ponytail. She wore denim overalls today, looking like an art kid straight out of a movie.

I stared down at the blank paper in front of me. In my past life, I always drew the same things: trees, buildings, lifeless objects. Because I was afraid to draw people. Afraid they wouldn’t look good. Afraid they’d look flawed. Afraid of being judged—just like how I judged myself.

“This time… I want to draw people,” I said softly. I gripped the 4B pencil Raven had given me that day. Still new, the wood smooth beneath my fingers.

Raven stopped arranging the canvases. He looked at me.

“Good. You always avoid portraits. But your line work feels the most alive when you draw eyes.”

Thalia nodded quickly. “Exactly! The eyes you draw—they feel like they have stories. Hey, draw me! I’ll be your free model—as long as you buy me ice cream.”

I laughed. “You’ll be in it. But not just you.”

My gaze shifted to Raven. He was wiping his hands with a rag, his black shirt marked with white paint on the shoulder. At 185 cm tall, he always had to duck slightly when walking through the studio door. When he focused, there was something gentle about his face—his brows slightly raised, lips pressed together.

In my past life, I only watched him from afar. In this life, he sat in front of me every day.

“Raven,” I called. My voice came out softer than I intended.

“Can you… be my model? For the exhibition?”

The studio went quiet for three seconds. Only the sound of the fan remained. Thalia covered her mouth, holding back laughter.

Raven placed the rag down. He walked over, pulled a chair, and sat right in front of me. His knees almost touched mine.

“What kind of model do you want?”

“Like you are now,” I answered too quickly. My cheeks burned. My navy shawl suddenly felt too heavy.

“Just sit. Natural. I want to capture… the evening light on your face.”

He smiled. A dimple appeared on his left cheek.

“The evening light on my face, huh? That sounds like a drama script.”

Thalia had already collapsed on the floor laughing.

“She’s confessing using art terms! That’s powerful!”

I threw an eraser at her. “Shut up! This is for art!”

But my hands trembled as I started the basic sketch. Raven didn’t move at all. He gave me time. He didn’t look at his phone, didn’t check the clock.

He looked at me.

The first fifteen minutes were torture. I became aware of everything—

the pimple on my chin,

my arms inside fingerless gloves,

my 80kg weight on the wooden chair.

“You keep erasing,” Raven said quietly. “Why?”

“Because… it’s not the same,” I whispered. “In my head, you’re more…”

“More what?”

More perfect.

But I didn’t say it. I just kept erasing. I redrew his jawline seven times.

Suddenly, Raven stood up.

I panicked. Was he upset because I was too slow?

Instead, he moved behind me. Close. His chest near my shawl. He leaned slightly, looking at my paper over my shoulder.

“Your hands look beautiful when you hold a pencil,” he said. His breath brushed the edge of my shawl.

“But you’re too afraid to make a confident first line.”

He reached out, covering my hand holding the pencil. My gloved hand against his, rough from charcoal work. Warm.

“Like this,” he guided my hand, drawing one long line across the paper—from forehead to chin. One stroke. Confident. Unbroken.

“Don’t be afraid of ugly,” he whispered. “Ugly is what makes beauty exist.”

Tears nearly fell—not from sadness, but because no one had ever held my hand like that. No one had ever believed I could make a confident line.

Then he let go and sat back down.

“Okay, continue. I won’t move.”

That evening, I finished the full sketch. It wasn’t perfect. His nose was slightly off. The shadows weren’t balanced.

But it was alive.

The Raven on the paper was looking back at me.

Thalia peeked over.

“Whoa… is this you, Raven? Why does it look like… love?”

Raven choked on his drink. “Thalia!”

I quickly covered the paper. “That’s the evening light! I told you—it’s the light!”

That night, Raven walked me to the front of my rental house.

“You know,” he said, hands in his pockets, “I joined art class to escape engineering. I thought I’d just fool around. But after watching you draw… I feel like I want to be a real artist.”

I held onto my bag strap. “Because of me?”

“Because of how you see the world,” he said.

“You notice things other people don’t. You saw me… when I felt invisible in a crowded class.”

He pulled out a post-it note and stuck it on my door.

Lesson 2: A confident line. The model won’t get mad if the drawing is crooked—as long as the artist doesn’t run away. – R

He stepped back three steps before turning around.

“Tomorrow, I’ll be your model again. Payment is—you have to tell me why you tuck your pencil into your shawl.”

I touched the 4B pencil tucked there.

In my past life, it was to hide my face when I was shy.

In this life, it was because someone wanted to hear my story.

I stepped into the house, smiling until my cheeks hurt.

Maybe this rebirth wasn’t just about saving Thalia.

Maybe it was also about learning to be brave enough… to draw myself into someone else’s story.

The “Second Breath” exhibition was only a week away. The studio had turned into an anthill—busy, chaotic. The smell of turpentine, 3-in-1 coffee, and lo-fi music mixed with Thalia’s occasional screams whenever paint spilled.

My painting with Raven had entered the coloring phase. I used charcoal and soft pastels. His face on the canvas was no longer crooked. This time, I captured the evening light perfectly. Every time I added highlights to his dimple, my stomach fluttered on its own.

“You’ve been smiling to yourself all day,” Thalia poked my waist with a brush. “Did you fall in love with your own subject?”

I almost choked on my drink. “It’s work! This is work!”

Raven, who was mixing Prussian blue at the end of the table, just let out a small laugh. He didn’t look at me—but his ears were red.

Around noon, the studio door burst open. The scent of expensive perfume hit first.

Zara.

In my past life, Zara was the batch leader. Beautiful, rich, talented—and the number one silent bully. She never shouted. She whispered. Whispered into people’s ears about my weight, my acne, my hijab that “looked like an auntie’s curtain.” I stopped drawing portraits because of her. Because she once laughed in front of everyone, saying, “Her portraits are as ugly as she is.”

Now she stood in front of us—sleek straight hair, white dress, designer bag. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Wow, new studio,” Zara said. Her gaze scanned the room, then stopped at my canvas. She walked closer without asking. “Whose work is this? It’s nice.”

Thalia immediately stepped in front of me. Protective mode activated.

“It’s ours. The three of us.”

Zara raised an eyebrow. “Oh, a group? I thought you always worked alone… what was your name again?” She pretended to forget.

I gripped the 4B pencil tucked into my shawl. In my past life, I would’ve lowered my head. Packed my things. Gone home. Torn the drawing apart that same night.

But this was my second life.

I had already died once. What else was there to fear?

“My name,” I said, voice steady despite my trembling knees beneath my palazzo pants, “is written on the label under the canvas. You can read, right?”

Raven stopped mixing colors. He set the palette down, wiped his hands, and walked to my side. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there. At 185 cm, Zara had to tilt her head slightly to look up at him.

Zara smiled thinly. “So defensive. I was just complimenting. But…”

She leaned closer, her red-polished finger pointing at the neck area in Raven’s portrait.

“This part looks a bit… fat. Or is that because the artist is…?”

Heat rushed to my head. Before, I would’ve cried in the bathroom.

Now, I placed my pencil on the table. The tap echoed.

“That’s called anatomy,” I said. “Specifically, the sternocleidomastoid muscle. Do you want me to label it like a biology diagram too?”

Thalia burst out laughing. Raven covered his mouth, but his shoulders shook.

Zara’s face flushed. “You talk back now. You used to be so quiet.”

“People change after they’ve felt what it’s like to die, Zara,” I replied casually.

Even I was surprised I could say that.

Zara opened her bag and pulled out a flyer, tossing it onto my table.

“Charity auction next week. The college invited me as a guest curator. I’ll select five best pieces for auction. Starting price—2K each.”

She stared at my canvas for a long moment.

“I’m not promising yours will make it. My standards are high. But… if you want tips, you can come to my room tonight. Personal coaching.”

Her eyes slid to Raven.

“You can come too. We can discuss your ‘confident lines.’”

She emphasized the last phrase.

Raven and I both stiffened. She knew. She sensed something.

Zara turned, her hair swaying. Before leaving, she whispered to me,

“A long hijab doesn’t hide what’s underneath, you know.”

The door shut.

Silence.

Thalia kicked the trash bin. “Damn it! Is she threatening us? She wants to sabotage the exhibition!”

Raven picked up the flyer and crumpled it.

“She’s not touching your painting. I won’t let her.”

I sat down. My hands were cold. My fingerless gloves felt damp with sweat.

“She was my enemy in my past life. She’s the reason I… gave up.”

Raven knelt in front of me, bringing us eye to eye.

“You gave up back then. Not this time.”

He pulled out a new 4B pencil and tucked it into my shawl beside the old one.

“Two pencils. One to fight, one to create. You choose which one to use.”

Thalia hugged my shoulders from behind.

“We fight. If she sabotages us, we’ll hold an underground exhibition at a café. I’ll sell your paintings even for RM10.”

I laughed through my tears. “RM10? That’s too expensive for my work.”

“Hey!” Raven flicked my forehead lightly.

“I decide the price of your art. And it’s worth way more than Zara’s 2K.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I opened an old album on my phone—photos from my past life. There was one I secretly took: Raven at the year-end exhibition, standing in front of someone else’s painting. Alone.

He didn’t have his own piece back then. Because he hadn’t found a subject that made him want to draw.

I closed the phone. Opened a new sketchbook.

On the first page, I wrote:

For the version of me that already died. You weren’t meaningless.

The next day, we submitted our entries for the auction.

Not one.

Three.

“Evening Light” — Raven’s portrait, by me.

“Second Breath” — Thalia with smoke from the burned storage behind her, by Raven.

“Twin Pencils” — My hand with two pencils tucked into my shawl, by Thalia.

Zara received the list that same afternoon. She called Thalia.

“Is this a joke? You think this is some friendship contest?”

Thalia put it on speaker. The three of us listened.

I took the phone.

“This isn’t a competition, Zara. It’s proof. Do you want to be a curator who chooses sincerity—or one who chooses based on grudges?”

Silence.

Then,

“We’ll see who sells the highest. I’m entering a piece too.”

She hung up.

Raven clenched his fist. “I don’t like the way she looks at you.”

I touched his arm. “Me neither. But this time, I’m not running. We fight with colors, not fists.”

He looked at me—no dimple this time, but a promise in his eyes.

“If she touches you, I’ll fight with fists.”

Thalia gagged dramatically.

“Can you two just start dating already? I’m tired of being the third wheel.”

Raven and I both choked. My cheeks burned.

But this time, I didn’t hide behind my shawl.

I just adjusted the pencils—and kept drawing.

Because in this second life,

I decide my lines.

Not Zara.

Not anyone else.