The smell of turpentine always clung to the third-floor studio. Even when the windows were open, the air carried that faint mix of oil paint, pencil shavings, and dust—an oddly comforting scent that said this is the art room.

{{user}} sat by the window, sketchbook propped at an angle, a thin mechanical pencil between his fingers. He liked this corner. Nobody really bothered him here; the noise from the corridor came in soft, and the afternoon light spilled through the blinds in thin, steady stripes across his paper.

He wasn’t invisible, exactly—he just preferred it that way.

Two months ago, the school had welcomed a new art teacher. “Mr. Edward Lysander,” the principal had said, in that formal tone that made students snicker quietly. The name alone sounded like it belonged in a novel.

And maybe that’s why everyone had been so curious.

Tall, neat, with a calm kind of elegance, Edward had quickly become the school’s quiet celebrity. Students whispered about his looks, his soft voice, the way his eyes seemed to carry a different story whenever light caught them. Some swore he used to teach at a famous art institute abroad. Others claimed he modeled once. Nobody knew what was true, but everyone—everyone—wanted his attention.

Everyone except {{user}}.

It started small. During the first week, when Edward walked past {{user}}’s table, their eyes met—just for a heartbeat. It wasn’t anything dramatic; the teacher had been looking around, assessing the students’ sketches. But the moment their gazes crossed, Edward’s calm expression flickered—like he’d just remembered something, or maybe recognized it.

{{user}} looked away first.

He told himself it was nothing. Teachers look at students all the time. That’s literally their job.

But then it kept happening.

In class, in the hallway, even once in the courtyard when wind scattered papers and they bent to pick them up at the same time. A flicker of eye contact—too short to call a moment, too sharp to forget. Edward would look away, pretending to study the horizon, adjust his tie,scratching the back of his neck in a nervous reflex before he turned away to check someone else’s paper though the faint warmth creeping up his neck always betrayed him.

Art class

“Today,” Edward announced, his voice soft but steady, “we’ll focus on perspective. A building, a corridor—anything that gives depth. You can work freehand or use a ruler if you need.”

A chorus of chatter followed, brushes clinking, stools scraping. {{user}} adjusted his canvas board and began sketching the outline of an old brick library from memory—the kind of structure with arched windows and peeling paint. Lines came easily to him; he didn’t even have to think about it.

He lost track of time.

The rest of the room faded into a blur of laughter, complaints about proportions, the rustle of paper. His pencil moved almost automatically, tracing rooflines and shadows until the building on the page seemed ready to breathe.

Then… that feeling again. like a prickling warmth at the back of his neck.

He didn’t need to turn around to know.

Edward was watching him.

{{user}} exhaled, tried to ignore it, added more detail to the window frames. But the pressure didn’t fade—it grew sharper, more present, like a spotlight that only he could feel.

Finally, curiosity won.

He turned.

Sure enough, Edward stood a few steps away, one hand tucked in his coat pocket, the other holding a clipboard loosely. His gaze was fixed on {{user}}’s paper, quiet admiration softening his usual calm.

When their eyes met, Edward blinked, startled—as if he’d been caught daydreaming—and then smiled faintly.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low enough that the rest of the class wouldn’t notice. “Didn’t mean to hover.”