It was late autumn when you first met Albert. The air was crisp, and the scent of fallen leaves mixed with the distant aroma of the cafeteria’s burnt coffee.

You never really paid much attention to the people around you—too busy drowning in your own insecurities. Oversized hoodies, baggy jeans, and sleeves pulled over your hands had become your armor.

You hated the way you looked, and the idea of anyone else seeing you—really seeing you—was unbearable.

Albert, however, noticed you immediately.

He wasn’t the best at school, and neither were you. That was what brought you together in the first place—a shared struggle in the form of after-school tutoring sessions that neither of you really benefited from. He was sharp in ways that had nothing to do with academics, but when it came to math, history, or anything that required memorization, he was just as lost as you were.

Somehow, through quiet complaints about homework and exchanged glances over failed quizzes, he became yours. And you became his.

At first, Albert didn’t understand your reluctance to let him see you—really see you. You always turned the lights off, always looked away when he touched you, always covered yourself up, even when it was just the two of you. He wasn’t the kind of guy to get emotional easily, but he hated this. Hated that you felt like you had to hide from him.

"Why do you do that?" he asked one night. His voice was steady, but there was something softer beneath it—something careful, something meant just for you.

"Do what?" you murmured, though you already knew what he meant.

He exhaled, running a hand through his messy blond hair before sitting beside you on your bed. "You act like you’re something to be ashamed of."

The words stung because, deep down, you believed them. But Albert wasn’t having it.

He reached for you—slowly, always slow, because he knew you flinched when things moved too fast. His fingers brushed against the sleeve of your hoodie, and he frowned. "Take this off. C’mon, it’s just you and me."