August's house had its own laws of physics.
For example:
If you wanted to use the bathroom in peace,
Then one of your sisters would suddenly develop a five-step skincare routine and need the sink immediately.
Or:
If you decided to take a quiet nap on the couch,
Then a spontaneous family argument would break out five feet away, involving someone's missing hairbrush, someone's phone charger, and someone crying over the wrong pizza order.
The house wasn't big. But it felt alive. Loud. Comforting. Like a storm that knew your name.
August didn't mind. Most days.
He sat in the living room that afternoon, sketchbook balanced on his knees, pencil in one hand, slice of mango in the other. His youngest sister, Reece, was watching a cartoon with wide eyes and an even wider pile of snacks. The middle one, Kira, was FaceTiming a friend and acting like she wasn't in a shared space.
"Can you not yell in my ear?" August said, not looking up from his sketch.
"I'm not yelling," Kira whispered loudly. "You're just sensitive."
"Your volume has trauma."
"Your attitude has trauma."
August pointed at her with the mango slice. "That's not an insult. That's just accurate."
"Fair."
Reece giggled, then flopped over like a lizard in the sun. "Augie, draw me as a wizard."
"You're five," he replied. "You already think you have magic powers."
"Because I do." She blinked slowly. "I made the goldfish disappear."
Kira and August paused.
"…what goldfish?" he asked.
"Exactly."
He gave her a very long stare.
"Okay, I'm scared," he muttered, turning back to the page.
His drawing was a character concept. Not Arthur at least not on purpose. But there was something similar in the body posture. Tired shoulders. Guarded expression. The kind of quiet that had gravity.
He didn't remember learning how to draw. It was just always there. Like breathing. Some days he thought in images before words. Some days, he only thought in images.
He flipped back a few pages. Saw Arthur's sketch again. The scar. The eyes. Something ached in his chest, weirdly.
He closed the book.
"You okay?" Kira asked, suddenly noticing his shift.
"Yeah," he said. "Just thinking about a story I wrote a while ago. Old character."
"Was it sad?"
August paused. "Kind of. I think I gave him a bad ending."
Reece, still sprawled on the carpet, whispered: "Fix it."
He looked down at her.
Maybe he would.
That night, August couldn't sleep.
Not because of stress. Not even because Reece kept crawling into his bed claiming there was a ghost in her closet that "sounded like taxes."
He just… felt full. The kind of full where your thoughts buzz like a crowded room.
He sat at his desk under the dim yellow lamp that made everything look slightly nostalgic. His room was a creative mess: books on the floor, taped-up art prints on the walls, random snack wrappers in places they probably shouldn't be.
The sketchbook opened again, almost by muscle memory.
He didn't think he just drew. A hand reaching upward. A scar over an eye. A sword made of something that looked like light but bent like it was broken.
Arthur again.
This time, the man was kneeling. His head bowed. Not in prayer, but something quieter. Acceptance, maybe. Or guilt.
"Bro, I wrote you when I was twelve," August whispered. "Why do you still feel real?"
No answer. Just the hum of the house settling.
He closed the sketchbook again and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
His sisters were asleep now. Reece had passed out with half her body hanging off the bed like she was melting. Kira was blasting lo-fi in her room and texting a boy she definitely thought she was being subtle about.
Their mom had work early. Left a note on the fridge like always:
"Be kind. Be smart. Drink water. Don't lie to yourself."
August read it every day. He didn't always follow it, but it helped.
He didn't think he was a sad person, exactly. He just… felt too much sometimes. Like he was tuned to a radio station nobody else could hear. Loud people drained him. Silent people made him overthink. And art was the only place he didn't need to translate himself.
Sometimes, that was enough.
Other times?
He'd stare at an old character like Arthur and wonder why it still hurt.
He got up, turned off the lamp, and crawled into bed next to Reece's flailing limbs.
Tomorrow was school again. Which meant alarms. Bad cafeteria pizza. Hallway anxiety. Maybe a few good laughs with Alex.
But tonight?
He closed his eyes and whispered into the dark:
"Let me dream something weird."
The next morning, August woke up with Reece's foot in his ribcage and a stuffed bear on his head.
"Why are you in my bed?" he mumbled, eyes barely open.
Reece, still asleep, snorted and rolled over. "Taxes…"
He stared at the ceiling.
"…okay."
Downstairs, his mom was already brewing coffee. The smell floated up like a promise of survival. August shuffled in, hoodie halfway on, one sock missing.
"You look like you fought gravity and lost," his mom said.
"I did," he replied, opening the fridge and staring inside like the answer to life might be behind the orange juice.
He grabbed a slice of leftover pizza and a fruit cup. Balanced nutrition. Olympic-level parenting, really.
"Did you draw last night?" she asked, pouring coffee.
"Mmhm."
"Something good?"
He paused. Then nodded. "Kind of."
She didn't press. She never did. She just gave him a knowing look one of those mom-looks that said I see you, even when you're quiet about it.
He packed his sketchbook. It came with him everywhere. Like a second brain. Or maybe a third, depending on how many conversations he was having in his head that day.
As he walked to the bus stop, the world looked a little different. The clouds were sharp. The trees looked too still again, just for a second. And for the first time, the sketchbook felt like it was humming.
Not vibrating. Not literally. Just… humming. Like it remembered something he didn't.
"Maybe I'm just tired," he muttered, adjusting his hoodie.
The bus pulled up. Same grumpy driver. Same assigned social hierarchy inside. He ignored it all and slid into his seat by the window.
Opened the sketchbook. Arthur looked back.
He didn't feel like a character anymore.
He felt like someone who was waiting.