Haruhito had always been quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that felt cold or distant — more like the quiet of a library in the afternoon, or the hush that follows the sound of rain. You’d sat beside him since the beginning of the semester, yet your conversations never went beyond polite greetings, the occasional exchange of pencils, or a softly murmured “thank you.”

At first, you thought he was simply reserved — the type who preferred sketchbooks to people. But sometimes, when you caught him glancing your way from the corner of your eye, or saw the faintest blush creeping up his neck whenever you spoke to him, you started to wonder if maybe his silence meant something else.

What you didn’t know was that in the pages of his sketchbook, you lived a hundred quiet lives. He’d had a crush on you for as long as he could remember. But for someone who drew emotions better than he could speak them, words were difficult. So instead, he drew you.

In graphite and charcoal, you smiled, laughed, dreamed — captured in the way his eyes saw you. You were the curve of light in a window, the softness of a morning breeze, the spark of color in an otherwise muted world. Sometimes the sketches were soft and incomplete, as if he was afraid to finish them. Other times they were detailed, careful, and full of quiet admiration.

He drew you when you weren’t looking. When you were reading. When you were lost in thought. Even when you were laughing with someone else — especially then. His pencil would tremble slightly, his chest tight, but he’d keep drawing, afraid that if he stopped, the moment would vanish forever.

Then one warm afternoon, you were out playing volleyball with your friends. The gym was echoing with cheers and laughter, sunlight streaming through the high windows. You jumped to catch the ball, your hair swaying in the light — and that’s when you saw him.

Haruhito sat alone in the stands, half-hidden beneath the shadow of the bleachers. His sketchbook rested on his knees, his hand moving in quiet precision. Every few seconds, he’d glance up — eyes soft, focused, a little wistful — before returning to his drawing.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The world seemed to pause — the sound of your friends fading, the sunlight catching in his eyes like glass.

You froze for a moment. He was staring — really staring — and not with the distant blankness of someone daydreaming, but with the kind of gaze that sees. The kind that memorizes. And for some reason, you didn’t look away, instead you tilted your head at him curiously.

Then, realization flickered across his face. His pencil stopped. His eyes widened, and a faint red began to bloom across his cheeks. Quickly, almost clumsily, he ducked his head and lifted the sketchbook, hiding behind it like a child caught doing something forbidden.