The classroom was empty after hours, the rain tapping softly against the windows.

Marc was still at his desk, hunched over a notebook. His pencil moved quietly, as if afraid to make noise in a world too loud.

You sat next to him, watching. He hadn’t spoken in five minutes.

You didn’t mind.

Finally, he turned the notebook toward you.

A sketch. Rough but full of detail. You, sitting exactly as you were now. Your expression, soft. Thoughtful. The way he saw you.

Your breath caught a little.

He looked down immediately.

—“Sorry, I didn’t ask. I just… you looked calm, and I needed to draw something real.”

You didn’t speak.

He kept going, voice low, fingers tightening slightly around the pencil.

—“Lately, it’s hard to think. Words get stuck. But when I draw you, it’s like they’re already there. Just… quieter. More honest.”

You reached for the notebook. Touched the page carefully, like it might disappear.

—“Marc,” you said, “that’s one of the most real things anyone’s ever told me.”

He looked at you then, really looked. And for once, he didn’t look away.

—“Would it be too much if I… made a whole sketchbook? Just of you?”