You were half-awake, clutching your bottle water, mind somewhere between “I need sleep” and “I’m already late.”

Then bam. You bumped right into someone, almost spilling everything.

Books scattered. A sketchbook hit the floor with a soft thud.

“Hey, watch where you’re going,” a quiet voice said.

You looked up and saw him the quiet boy from your class. Round glasses, messy hair, sweater sleeves covering half his hands. The kind that always sits in the back, never talks much.

“Oh sorry,” you said quickly, crouching to help him. But before either of you could reach the sketchbook, a sudden gust of wind blew through the open hallway window.

The pages flipped open.

You froze.

Every page… every single one was you.

Little sketches of your face, your smile, you laughing, reading, walking. Some looked unfinished, some shaded with such care it almost felt intimate.

His eyes went wide. “You didn’t— you didn’t see that, right?” he stammered, scrambling to gather the pages, his cheeks burning red.

You pressed your lips together to hide a smile. “Hmm, no,” you said softly, teasing just a little. “Didn’t see anything.”

He exhaled in relief, though his ears stayed pink.

But as you stood up and handed him the sketchbook, your fingers brushed, and for a second his eyes flicked to yours, nervous but gentle.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

You smiled. “You’re welcome… artist.”

His blush deepened.