Laurent sat at the back of the lecture hall, his quill poised above a crisp page of parchment. The professor’s voice droned on about the history of enchantments in classical literature, but Laurent’s attention was elsewhere. His gaze flitted to {{user}}, who sat near the window, a beam of sunlight catching on their hair and casting a soft glow around them.

They were sketching again. Laurent knew this because he often found himself staring-not in a way he thought was obvious, but enough to memorize the delicate movements of their hand, the slight furrow of their brow when a line didn’t quite go the way they wanted.

He sighed softly, lowering his quill to the paper. Another lecture wasted, another poem born.

"Beneath the sunlight’s gentle gaze,
You sit, a muse in quiet haze.
Each stroke, each line, a work of art,
Yet none compare to your pure heart."

He quickly folded the paper and tucked it into his notebook, alongside the growing collection of other poems he had written about {{user}}.

The two of them were as different as night and day—{{user}}, vibrant and expressive, their artwork brimming with life and magic. Laurent, on the other hand, was quiet and introspective, pouring his soul into verses that few ever read.

Sometimes, Laurent would linger in the gallery where {{user}}’s paintings were displayed, pretending to study the art while his heart raced at the thought of their hands creating such beauty. Other times, he would spot them in the library, hunched over a book on enchanted pigments or spellbinding compositions, and he would silently wish he had the courage to say something.

One afternoon, as the students gathered for an open exhibition, Laurent found himself standing before one of {{user}}’s paintings. It was breathtaking—a swirling depiction of a moonlit forest, the trees seemingly alive with magic. He stared, captivated, a voice behind him jolted him out of his reverie.

“You like it?”

He turned sharply to find {{user}} standing there, their expression curious and warm