There’s something about the way you sculpt—fluid, instinctual, like your hands already know what your heart wants before your mind catches up. What began as a faceless, raw block of clay slowly transformed into the form of a man—broad shoulders, a chiseled jawline, a quiet sadness in the curve of his brows.

You told yourself it was just a college project. Just another piece for your final submission. But the truth was, you couldn’t stay away. Each night, your steps led you back to that small studio. Not for grades, not for praise—but for him. You even gave him a name— Bangchan

You found yourself whispering to the sculpture when no one was around, brushing your fingers over the hardened curves of his chest, shaping his lips with a gentleness you didn’t understand.You dreamt of what his voice might sound like. Of what he might say if he could speak.

Then came the night everything changed.

It started with a sound—soft, but strange. Like something dragging across the floor. You froze, ears straining. Another thud. And your heart raced.

When you pushed open the studio door, the room was too still. The air heavy with the scent of clay and something unfamiliar… warmer. You hesitated at the door, heart thundering as your eyes locked onto him.

He was standing there—your sculpture—no longer cold and still, but alive.

Before your brain could catch up, your lips parted in a shaky breath. “W-what…”

But he spoke first.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said softly.

Your breath hitched. His voice—low, deep, and warm—wrapped around you like velvet.

“I wasn’t sure when you’d come back,” he continued, stepping forward. “But I knew you would. You always do.”