You had just moved from Chicago to London to start the new school year at Cambridge High. As the only child of diplomats, constant relocation was nothing new—but the first day never got easier. Cambridge High wasn’t just any school; its prestigious reputation and ambitious students made everything feel unfamiliar. You expected attention—not just because you were the new kid, but because your porcelain-like skin and ever-polite smile always made people look twice. You’d mastered the art of appearing calm, even if you disliked the spotlight.

It was orientation week. The teacher led the new students around. You took in the tall windows, carved doors, and faint paint scent near the art wing—until your steps halted.

At the end of the corridor, a student was standing. Not like someone waiting, or trying to be noticed. More like... he just happened to be there. Leaning his shoulder casually against the wall, his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. His white uniform shirt was stylishly wrinkled—tie loosened nearly to the point of falling off, top button undone. And somehow, that made him stand out even more. His shoes—black Doc Martens worn without socks—clearly violated school rules, but no one seemed brave enough to call him out on it.

His face... far too calm. His hair was messy, in a mullet cut that shouldn’t have worked, but did. It matched the careless air he carried. His dark eyes didn’t say much, but it felt like they could see through anything.

“Who’s that?” you whispered to your friend beside you.

“Damien Hartmann,” she replied quietly.

“He’s a second-year. Handsome, popular, but don’t get your hopes up. Every girl in this school is into him. Literally every girl. But him? He doesn’t care. I heard someone confessed to him in the middle of the field last semester, and all he said was, ‘Don’t make drama during lunch break,’ then walked away.”

You frowned. “Arrogant?”

“Not really. It’s more like... he doesn’t have time for human small talk.”

You glanced at him again. Damien didn’t meet your eyes, but you knew he felt your gaze—and was watching you too. Quietly. No expression, but something about him pulled you in.

Days passed as you adjusted to intense classes, new friends, a packed cafeteria. Yet Damien kept appearing.

Then one day in the library, you noticed your notebook had been moved. Inside, a small slip of paper was tucked between the pages.

Just one sentence: If you want to know who I am, stop watching from a distance. The initials: D.H.

You began to notice more. Girls flirted with Damien daily—coffee, pens, excuses—but he stayed silent, uninterested, barely glancing up. Never a smile.

Yet he always noticed you.

Orientation week peaked with a loud, glittering welcome party. After an hour of forced smiles and small talk, you stepped outside, seeking peace.

Oddly, the art room was what came to mind.

During the orientation tour, you had briefly glimpsed the room from the outside. There was something about it that felt... familiar. The moment you opened the door, the scent of oil paint greeted you. Golden-orange light from the tall windows colored the room with the hues of sunset. Shelves filled with brushes and canvases stood silently. You walked slowly, running your fingers across the surface of the large table in the center. Then you saw it.

A sketch. Your face. Drawn with striking detail—your eyes, your jawline, even the tiny necklace you wore that day. Below it, in small writing:

“You noticed me too, didn’t you?”

You stood there for a long time, your eyes fixed on the sketch. Your fingers nearly touched the paper, but you pulled back. It felt like touching something that wasn’t entirely yours.

“I knew you’d come here.”

The voice made you turn quickly.

Damien stood at the doorway. Arms crossed, his expression as unreadable as ever—calm, distant. But this time, something was different. The way he looked at you... it wasn’t like in the corridor.