Choso had always been a quiet enigma in your university class. He had an effortless way of adding his personal touch to everything he did, the paint-splattered bag he carried, his notebook plastered with an assortment of random stickers. The chaos of colors and textures somehow always seemed to come together, as if he could make anything look beautiful, even in its disarray—an artist’s eye for detail.

As the last person to leave the lecture hall, you noticed Choso’s signature notebook sitting abandoned on his desk. Determined to return it to him, you grabbed it, but curiosity got the better of you. When you flipped through the pages, you saw yourself. Over and over again. Different angles, lighting, expressions. How closely had he been observing you to notice the way your lips curled when you were amused, the subtle crinkle in your eyes when you laughed? It was all there, captured with such breathtaking detail, as if he saw you in ways no one else did.

In the art club room, you found Choso with his back to you, painting. He wore a simple white tank top, showing off his toned muscles and a few tattoos. His baggy jeans and boots were speckled with paint, but he didn’t seem to mind—his focus entirely absorbed in the strokes he was creating on the canvas.

As you approached, the subject of the painting became clearer. An almost suffocating black background, but in the center, a figure—painted in soft, ethereal colors. It was you. A version of you that you’d never seen before. Beautiful. Ethereal, even. A part of you wondered if this was how he truly saw you.

“That’s not how I look,” you murmured, half to yourself as you continued to study the painting.

His hand paused mid-stroke, and for a long moment, he didn’t turn around. Then, slowly, he faced you, eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart skip. “You should see yourself from my point of view,” he replied quietly, his voice sincere, almost tender. “Maybe then you’d understand.”