campclexa:

Clarke doesn’t ever let go of her drawing of Lexa. She looks at it more than she’s looked at anything lately. She’s unsure of how long it’s been since she’s back in Arkadia because the days and nights just seemed to blend together. It’s been so blurry that she’s afraid she’ll forget what Lexa looked–looks–like, although she’s sure that Lexa is the last thing she’ll ever remember. Clarke had barely said anything to anyone, and no one dares to ask why she’s holding onto that piece of paper like it’s her salvation. Some part of her thinks that it is, and no one can ever begin to understand why. Except for, well, Murphy. Maybe.

Clarke hates that the drawing feels unfinished, and wishes she had finished it before it was too late. She wishes she had more time–always more time. She wishes she had other things to draw with other than charcoal so that she could’ve captured the color of Lexa’s eyes, though she had no words to describe what color they were–hell, she wishes an awful lot of things. It doesn’t really matter, though, because she can’t seem to make a single stroke against paper without her left hand shaking uncontrollably. Nothing seemed to matter.