Finding a friend again

                                    

                                          
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You've always loved the sound that pencils make on paper.
Something about that made you relax. And the fact that you could create every existing color with them was a bonus. It was obvious you would end up with a job involving colors and pencils. You've been drawing since you can remember. You were told that the first time you held a marker and traced a line on a sheet of paper with it, your eyes sparkled with happiness. It was like it chose you. You'd always hear someone say, "Oh, y/n. You're so good. It's like God made you come to this world just to do it."
That last sentence was something you always heard. But that's mainly because the ones that raised you were nuns. You grew up in Hell's Kitchen, more specifically in Saint Agnes' orphanage, along with a bunch of kids of all ages from 3 to 16.
People will probably think 'Oh, wow. Another adult orphan with daddy issues, just like a good half of the Avengers. What a nice cliché,' and you feel them, you really do. You've read enough fanfictions about your favorite tv shows to know it. 
Now, despite all the religious people that were around during your childhood, you never became quite the catholic kind of person, but you do believe in the universe's plan. Everything has a reason. Your parents left you, and thanks to that you met a lot of amazing people there at Saint Agnes.
Because of your positive attitude, you were often asked to talk to new kids and help them settle in. But you must confess, your enthusiasm sometimes got you in trouble. You used to sneak around at night sometimes, just for the thrill of doing something you weren't supposed to, and sister Maggie always caught you. But she was never tough about it.
Except for that one time when you used a prayers book that you found in the church as a sketchbook. That was on boredom, your bad.
Once you were old enough, with enough money from a few jobs you tried, you thanked Father Lantom and the nuns for everything they gave you and you moved into your own place. It was really tiny but comfortable enough for two people to live in it. You found it with the help of your best friend from college, who then became your roommate.
The only thing to do was find a job. And that job was court sketch artist. It didn't pay much, but you liked it - being in trials, observing everyone, quickly drawing what was happening, and the expressions of every single person. And as a plus, you got to hear the sound of the pencils again.
As every other morning, you got out of bed and took out of the fridge whatever was left for breakfast. "Damn, it's time for groceries," you said to yourself, breaking the silence that was in the apartment. Your roomie was already out working, so you'd catch up later during dinner.
Once you were ready to go you took the elevator, hoping with all your heart that it wouldn't break down with you in it. The thing was really old.
You made your way to the courthouse, entering and taking your seat next to the jury before anyone else was there. That was how you worked. You always arrived ten minutes earlier than you should have, so that you could prepare your tools before the process started. You reluctantly took out the tablet that was in your bag. Recently you had to switch from paper and pencils to drawing apps because it was easier to send around work, and you didn't like it, but you would like less being unemployed, so you did it anyway.
Slowly people came in, someone glancing at you, probably because they didn't expect me to be in here alone already.
You knew nothing about this trial, except for the fact that there would not be cameras here today. That's why you were here. When cameras are not allowed, your sketches are the only thing that can be used as a picture in newspapers and stuff like that.