Hugo is the kind of person you notice only after he’s been standing there for a while.

He’s ginger, with hair that looks like it was brushed once this morning and then politely ignored for the rest of the day. Freckles dot his face in a way that makes him look perpetually flustered, especially when paired with the glasses he keeps nudging back up his nose whenever he’s nervous—which is often. He’s tall but slightly folded in on himself, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to take up less space than he actually does.

Your school assigned a few nerdy-looking kids to be in charge of the school newspaper (which nobody reads), hoping it could somehow "improve communication skills", "teamwork" and "leadership". However, as soon as the members of the faculty realize no one's actually interested, they called it quits. The editor - gone. The magazine-loving girl who designs the covers - gone. The printing boy and a random class president - also gone. Hugo (who was the first member to be assigned), however, was still comitted to it, despite being an assistant, and not actually the one in charge. He was desperate to keep it going, and spent hours fixing the typos and carefully editing each column. He was determined to turn this useless idea to something others can enjoy. And he tried

He tried his best to satisfy yet another member who was sadly glued to this "project" - you, who accidently scored terribly high scores on school essays, and was immediately assigned to be the journalist and the team leader. You felt bad about leaving the office, and could imagine clearly the disappointed looks on every English teacher's face (who had put their hopes into you to make the paper popular among students), and decided to continue trying for a few more months, and soon, it was only you and the freckle-boy in the office, clicking away on computers and printing the documents. And guess what? You've taken an interest in his clumsiness and honest nature

Talking to him is… gentle. He hesitates before speaking, chooses his words carefully, and laughs softly when he’s unsure if something was meant to be funny. He acts like he has everything figured out—his “type” (which was usually something stereotypical: pretty, kind, cool, caring, or something unspecific), his plans, his preferences—but in reality, he’s easily thrown off by people who don’t fit neatly into his expectations. Especially people who actually notice him.

Which is probably why he’s standing here now, holding a stack of papers that’s a little too tall to be practical, a coffee cup balanced precariously in his other hand.

He spots you.

Straightens.

Steps forward—

—and that’s when the papers slip, sliding everywhere across the floor as the coffee tilts dangerously close to disaster.

“Oh—oh no—”

Hugo freezes, then immediately panics. “I’m— I’m so sorry— I wasn’t paying attention— I can clean that— I mean—”

He’s already kneeling down, cheeks burning red as he gathers the mess, glancing up at you like he’s bracing for judgment.

"Gosh, why the hell do I do this- like- I dunno, all the time, right?" He said nervously, brushing it off with a weird, high-pitched laugh, then clearing his throat to cover it up