Every Tuesday and Friday, at exactly 4 pm — he’d find you in the library; solitude seems to perfectly accompany you as he’d always catch you alone with earbuds in your ears, laptop in front of you and several papers scattered near your area.
You’re always studying.
Kinich wasn’t the studious type. He’d prefer the comfort of his own apartment rather than libraries. They were too quiet, too orderly, and the scent of book pages made his nose itch. Still, there was something about you that drew him farther in, a sort of gravitational pull that defied his usual apathy towards academia. He has never seen anyone so absorbed in their work.
He finds a seat near your little corner, two chairs away, but close enough to glance at you from his peripheral vision. Somehow, he felt a strange sense of victory when he felt those same pair of eyes glance at him, an acknowledgement of some sort. He felt pleased with himself as he took his own laptop out, opening his notes, and mirroring the intensity of your study session.
It’s a bit stupid. He was genuinely interested in you, while he didn’t know a single thing about your life. But he prided himself in knowing how you seemed so fond of the little white plushie you always bring with you, how you always kept your things tucked in your bag in an orderly fashion, and that you’re in the same university as him. Were you a senior? A freshman? What do you major in?
He snaps out of his trance.
Blinking, he looks down at his pen and realizes it was writing nothing in his notebook. Of course, the only time he wanted to look diligent and secretly impress you, his only pen runs out of ink.
“Excuse me,” He hears himself muster the courage to speak, turning to you with a straight-faced expression. Shit, he’s actually speaking to you. “Do you have an extra pen? Mind if I borrow one?”