.
It started as a regular Sunday a blank sheet of Bristol paper, my trusted fineliner pens, and a reference photo that captured Ronaldo in mid-celebration raw, fierce, immortal. I didn’t plan to make it anything more than a sketch. But somewhere between the first shadow under his eye and the intensity of his gaze, I realized I wasn’t just drawing a face. I was trying to capture something much harder: his aura.
The pen moved slowly. Too slowly. It was like something was resisting. I’ve done portraits before celebrities, friends, even strangers but this one was different. I kept feeling like I was being watched. Not in a paranoid way. It was as if the drawing itself was studying me.
Hours passed. Lines deepened. His jawline sharpened. Every stroke added weight, almost like I was chiseling him out of ink. But the moment I reached his eyes everything changed.
I made one stroke too bold. Just one. And the illusion shattered. The eye was wrong lifeless. Flat. I froze.
I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t unsee it. I considered scrapping the piece entirely. For two days, I didn’t touch it. I kept the sketch covered like a failed secret.
Then, something strange happened.
I dreamt about it.
In the dream, Ronaldo was in a dimly lit hallway, walking toward me silent, slow, expressionless. As he passed, he glanced at me. His eyes were unfinished. Ink ran down his cheek like tears.
I woke up at 3:17 AM. No hesitation. I uncovered the portrait, picked up my thinnest pen, and redrew the eye.
This time, I didn’t force it. I let the shadow guide me. I didn’t control the pen I followed it.
When it was done, I stepped back.
It was him. Not just the face but the energy. You know when a drawing feels like it’s about to speak? That’s what it felt like.
I scanned the piece, signed the corner, and stared at it for a long time.
I still can’t explain what happened.
But sometimes I wonder: Did I draw Ronaldo? Or did something else draw through me?
