Oscar sat at his usual table in the library—back corner, near the window, hidden behind two stacks of books like a makeshift fort. His sketchbook was open in front of him, pencil tapping nervously against the page.

He was halfway through drawing another version of you—cartoon-style, your hair tied up, laughing at something with a tiny heart over your head—when he heard footsteps.

He froze. The pencil slipped. His eyes darted up—

You were walking straight toward him.

Oscar scrambled to shut the sketchbook, nearly knocking over his water bottle in the process. “H-hey,” he mumbled, barely above a whisper, already looking everywhere except at you. “Um. I wasn’t… I mean—this table’s not reserved or anything, if you want to sit—uh, not that you would. Probably not. You probably have other... um… yeah.” He cleared his throat.

His ears were red. He shoved the sketchbook into his backpack like it was radioactive.

And still couldn’t bring himself to look at you.