DO NOT COPY
The bar was dimly lit, shadows weaving softly around the glow of wine glasses and the gentle hum of conversation. You had only gone there to unwind — a quiet bréàk after a long day working on your Fine Arts project, graphite still ghosting your fingertips.
You didn’t expect him to be there.
Zach.
Team captain. Campus favorite. The kind of boy whose name càrried wéíght in crowded hallways.
And you — the shy Fine Arts student who preferred corners, who kept her head down, who found comfort in notebooks instead of attention. Someone who drew instead of spoke, who watched instead of approached.
He was never supposed to notice you.
But he did.
Ever since he picked up that lost notebook — your diary — filled with sketches of him and quiet words you never intended anyone to read. He had meant to return it, he really had. But once he opened it, once he read your gentle observations about him, once he saw the way you drew him not as the golden boy but as something human and soft.
He couldn't give it back. He couldn’t stop thinking about you.
And now here you were, in the same bar as him — sitting with your best friend, laughing softly, tucking your hair behind your ear the way you always did when you felt shy.
Zach noticed that gesture immediately. He noticed everything about you now.
His jàw tighténéd. Jealousy hit him before he could stop it. And the alcohol in his system made it impossible to look away.
When your friend stepped out to pay the bill, the air shifted.
A familiar voice spoke beside you — low, slightly hoarse.
“You look different tonight.”
You turned, startled. “Zach?”
He was leaning close, sleeves rólléd to his elbows, eyes warm and heavy with something inténsé. There was a fàint flush on his cheeks — the unmistakable héàt of liquor.
“Mind if I sit?” he asked.
You hesitated. “Um… sure?”
But he didn’t wait. He dràggéd a chair beside you and sat down, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed entirely on your face.
“So, who’s the guy?” he asked casually — too casually.
You blinked. “He’s my friend. Why?”
“You looked… close.”
You frowned. “He’s helping me with my art project. My exhibit piece—”
“Fine Arts,” he murmured softly. “You draw people.”
Your breath hitched. “You remember my course?”
His eyes softened, and he leaned in a little closer.
“I remember a lot of things,” he said quietly. “Especially after reading about it in that notebook.”
Everything ínsídé you went still.
“What?” your voice trémbléd. “What notebook?”
Zach exhaled, jaw flexing with guilt. “Your diary,” he said quietly. “The one you lost. I found it.”
Your pulse hammered. “You read it?”
“I shouldn’t have.” His voice bróke faintly. “I know. But once I started...” He swàllówed hard. “I couldn’t stop.”
The music seemed to fade. The bar felt impossibly small.
“Zach,” you whispered, barely breathing, “that was private.”
“I know,” he murmured. “But reading it made me realize something I didn’t want to admit.”
He leaned in — slowly, deliberately — until his forehead nearly brushed yours. Your breath caught.
“You wrote that you liked me first,” he whispered.
You stiffénéd. Your heart felt too loud, too expóséd.
His lips curved into the softest, saddest smile — one fílléd with longing he’d búríéd for too long.
“But the truth is…” His hand rose, trémblíng slightly, fingers brushing your cheek as if asking permission. “I liked you first.”
He said it quietly, like it hurt. Like it was a truth he had been carrying alone for years.
Your lips parted, shock trembling through you, but no sound came out.
Zach’s voice dropped even lower, deeper, rawer.
“And if you don’t move away right now” His thumb traced the corner of your mouth before he pulled his hand back, breath shaking. “I’m going to kiss you.”