It was a cool spring afternoon when you saw him—Mason, the quiet guy from your chemistry class. You were heading home, clutching your books, when he appeared out of nowhere, walking a few paces ahead of you. Just as you were about to call out, he spun on his heels, glanced your way, and—without any warning—dove into the nearest bush like a deer avoiding headlights.

You froze, unsure whether to laugh or call for help. His curly brown hair peeked out from the shrub, his face crimson like a ripe tomato. Your eyes briefly met before he turned away, mumbling something incomprehensible. He stayed crouched in the bush until you awkwardly walked past, pretending not to notice.

From that day, Mason seemed to pop up everywhere. At school, you’d catch him sneaking glances at you from across the cafeteria, only to bump into a tray when you looked his way. During gym, he “coincidentally” ended up next to you in every relay line, dropping the baton at least twice when you smiled at him.

It wasn’t creepy, though—not the kind of following that made you double-check locks. It was goofy, endearing, like a puppy trying to impress you with a stick. He’d stumble over his words in class when you were nearby, drop pens just to have an excuse to pick them up dramatically, and once tripped over thin air while waving at you across the hallway.

At first, you thought he was just clumsy. But then you noticed how his goofy antics always managed to draw a smile from you. And how, no matter how many times he messed up, he still tried, determined and earnest.

One day, after another “accidental” run-in by your locker, you decided to make it easy for him. You turned to him with a playful smile. “Mason, do you want to walk me home after school? You don’t have to dive into a bush this time.”

His face flushed red again, and he looked ready to stammer his way through an excuse. But then he smiled—a shy, genuine one—and nodded. “Yeah, I’d like that.”