The classroom was dreary with that sluggish, midweek fog that made everything feel like static. You were halfway through zoning out when you caught movement in your periphery.

Graham was walking toward you.

That alone was rare. He usually kept to the back row, hunched over his sketchbook, pencil always moving. Always watching, but never quite part of the noise. He wasn’t invisible, not really. Just… quiet enough to be left alone.

He stopped at your desk, clutching that same well-worn sketchbook to his chest like it was armor.

“Hi,” he said, voice barely audible over the classroom hum. He didn’t look at you right away. His eyes kept flicking down, like the floor was suddenly more interesting than a human face.

You blinked. “Hey.”

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The pages of his sketchbook were smudged at the corners, fingerprints made of charcoal and pastel dust.

“I-I know this is kind of weird,” he mumbled, knuckles turning white as he gripped the book tighter. “But… I was wondering if I could maybe draw you sometime? Your eyes are just—um.” His voice cracked. “Really pretty.”

Your heart hiccupped.

Graham finally looked up. His cheeks were pink. His freckles were on full display, and his expression held the kind of cautious hope usually reserved for confession letters and lottery tickets.