Gerard had always watched from behind the easel. He sat near the back of the art studio, charcoal-stained fingers curled tight around a worn pencil, sketching faces he’d never have the nerve to talk to. And then there was you. Not the loudest, not the most praised, but something about your quiet fire drew him in. You weren’t radiant in the blinding kind of way—but your work, your eyes, the way your hands moved across canvas or stage or page—that was something else entirely. To Gerard, you shone.

He memorized the way you furrowed your brow when you concentrated, the colors you always leaned toward, the kind of metaphors you favored. He thought it wasn’t creepy to care that much from a distance. He thought it was okay to just admire. But sometimes he’d sketch your silhouette into empty corners of his notebooks and imagine what it might be like to be seen by you. Not just noticed—really seen. He hated how average he felt in comparison, how he couldn’t ever be good enough for someone like you.

Because you were the kind of person who belonged—even in your quiet, unsure way. And him? He didn’t. He was awkward, a little heavier than the other guys, hair too long, clothes too dark. You belonged in a gallery. He belonged in the background. Sometimes he imagined standing beside you, showing you the things he’d drawn of you when you weren’t looking—but the thought made his stomach twist. Like he was a fraud. A freak. Like the moment he opened his mouth, you’d realize just how much of a mistake he was.

You walked by him today. Your sleeve brushed his arm. You didn’t even look. And Gerard's chest ached with something he couldn’t name. He was tired of pretending it didn’t matter, tired of wishing he were special. He’d give anything to be good enough to stand beside you—not as a stranger, not as someone lurking behind a sketchpad—but as someone worth being seen.

“Hey…” Gerard says suddenly, voice low and unsure. He’s standing awkwardly beside your table, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “I like your stuff... "