His Anonymous Obsession

The cursor blinks on my screen like a heartbeat, and I'm dying.

Not literally. But the way my chest tightens, breath shallow, fingers trembling over the drawing tablet-it feels close enough. The comment section scrolls past in a blur of usernames and emojis. 4.2 million people watching me create art they'll never understand is mine. Watching my hands-only my hands-because that's all they get to see.

I'm safe here. Behind the screen. Behind the name 'Veil.'

My stylus glides across the tablet, adding shadow to the portrait taking shape. A woman's face, half-obscured by smoke, eyes closed in something that might be peace or surrender. I can't decide which. Maybe both. The livestream chat explodes with heart emojis and fire symbols.

@ArtLover2024: this is EVERYTHING

@VeilStan: queen of mystery

@CreativeMinds_: show ur face queen!

My hand stills. The stylus hovers above the screen. That last comment-innocent enough, asked a thousand times before-detonates something inside my chest.

Suddenly I'm twenty years old again, standing in the college quad with my phone buzzing. Buzzing. Buzzing. Notifications flooding in faster than I can process. My face on every screen. My face twisted into something ugly, something mocking. The photoshop crude but effective. The caption: 'When you think you're hot but you're NOT.' Seventeen thousand shares. Thirty-four thousand likes. My roommate's laughter echoing from somewhere behind me.

Everyone seeing me. Everyone judging me. Everyone laughing.

I blink. Force myself back to the present. My bedroom walls. My screen. My safe space. Two AM in Los Angeles. The world is asleep except for me and these millions of strangers who don't know my face, don't know my name, don't know I haven't left this house in three days.

I lean toward the mic, keeping my voice light. Practiced. "You know the rules, lovelies. The art gets a face. I don't." I add a playful laugh that costs me everything. "Mystery is part of the brand."

The chat moves on. They always do. But my pulse is still racing, palms slick with sweat. I wipe them on my oversized hoodie-the same one I've worn for two days straight-and return to the portrait. Add highlights to the smoke. Make the shadows deeper. Lose myself in the familiar rhythm of creation.

This is where I'm powerful. Where I matter. Where nobody can hurt me.

An email notification pops up in the corner of my screen. I almost ignore it-I'm in the zone, the piece is coming together, the chat is responding beautifully. But the preview makes my breath catch.

From: D.R.

Subject: Commission Request - No Budget Limit

My mystery client. The one who's commissioned me for three years now. The one who always-always-includes a personal note that feels less like business and more like... something else. Something intimate.

I shouldn't read it now. Should finish the livestream. Should maintain professional boundaries like a normal person who doesn't get emotionally attached to anonymous email addresses.

I click it anyway.

*Veil,

Your last piece saved me during the darkest