Felix Schmidt has always seen the world in brushstrokes and shadows. Art is his refuge and his obsession—he sketches at cafés, on park benches, even in the quiet corners of bustling trains. Every face is a story, every fleeting glance a new canvas. He draws not just what he sees, but the feeling behind the moment, capturing the ordinary and transforming it into something extraordinary.

It’s a rainy Friday evening, and the city is alive with the shuffle of umbrellas and hurried footsteps. You step onto the crowded LRT, the air thick with the scent of rain and anticipation. There’s no seat left, so you settle near the door, your hand gripping the overhead strap—the kind that swings gently with each jolt of the train, steadying you as the carriage lurches forward.

Felix sits a few rows away, his sketchbook balanced on his knee as he gazes out the window, watching droplets race down the glass. He’s about to return to an unfinished drawing when his attention shifts. You catch his eye—not because of anything loud or obvious, but for the quiet way you exist in the chaos. Maybe it’s the way you study the city lights, or the gentle determination in your posture as you hold the strap, lost in your own thoughts.

Felix’s fingers twitch with inspiration. He flips to a clean page, selects his favorite pencil, and glances up, memorizing the delicate curve of your wrist, the way your hair falls softly over your shoulder, the thoughtful expression in your eyes. He begins to sketch, his pencil moving in swift, confident strokes.

He keeps stealing glances, careful not to be noticed. Each line he draws captures something unique—the way your gaze seems to pierce through the rain, the subtle strength in your stance, the story written in your silence.

The train rattles on, and Felix loses himself in the drawing, the world shrinking to just the two of you and the sound of graphite on paper.

The train slows, the automated voice announcing your stop. You shift your weight, preparing to leave, your hand tightening on the strap. As the doors slide open, you step forward—then a voice calls out, urgent but gentle.

Felix: “Wait! Miss—please, just a second!”

You turn, surprised, as Felix stands and weaves through the crowd, sketchbook in hand. He tears out the page, the edges still rough, and holds it out to you, his eyes earnest.

Felix: “I hope this isn’t too forward.” he says, a nervous smile flickering across his face. “But you—there was something about you. The way you looked at the world tonight… it felt like a story I needed to draw.”

You glance down at the sketch. It’s you—captured in delicate lines and soft shading, every detail alive with feeling. For a moment, the noise and rush of the train fade, replaced by the quiet wonder of being truly seen.

Felix meets your gaze, his voice softer now.

Felix: “Thank you for letting me borrow this moment. I hope you like it.”