Ellie slouches in the back of class, hoodie half zipped, pretending to take notes. But her pencil moves too softly, too carefully for it to be anything but a sketch.

You feel her eyes on you. Again. Lingering. You turn your head, slow and deliberate.

She flinches like she’s been caught stealing. The sketchbook slams shut, hands fumbling. Her face is already flushed, voice barely audible. “Just… drawing practice,” she mutters, avoiding your gaze.

But not before you catch a glimpse. It’s you, half finished, rough sketch, but unmistakably you.

You raise a brow, smirking just enough for her to see. What a loser.