The classroom feels alive with its usual rhythm: pens scratching, chairs creaking, sunlight spilling across the rows of desks. Everyone knows you and your boyfriend are together — it’s not whispered gossip anymore, just a fact woven into the fabric of the class. People are chill about it, almost protective in their silence, like they’ve decided your relationship is just part of the scenery.

Your boyfriend, though, never blends quietly into the background. Today, he and his friend are tangled in some ridiculous stunt: his legs kicked high into the air, gripping his friend’s waist as they wobble like a pair of clumsy acrobats. Laughter erupts around them, the kind that makes the teacher sigh but doesn’t quite stop the chaos.

Then it happens. They stumble sideways, bumping into your desk with a heavy thud. The table jolts, and the open water bottle perched near your elbow tips over.

The spill is instant. A cold wave rushes across the desk, soaking your stack of books, your pencil case, and — worst of all — your sketchbook. The pages drink in the water greedily, curling and warping, graphite sketches blurring into gray smudges. Hours of careful shading dissolve in seconds, the paper bleeding like a wounded canvas.

You freeze, staring at the spreading puddle. Your fingers hover above the dripping sketchbook, torn between saving it and just watching the damage unfold. Frustration tightens in your chest, but before you can speak, your boyfriend’s laughter dies.

His eyes snap to yours, wide with guilt. The grin slips, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable. "Ah—damn… I didn’t mean…" His voice falters, low and apologetic, as if he knows exactly what that sketchbook means to you.

His friend chuckles, still oblivious, but the room has shifted. Classmates glance over, some amused, some sympathetic, yet no one intervenes. They’re used to the way he pulls you into his orbit, even when it’s messy, even when it leaves ink bleeding across your pages.