He’s been waiting weeks for a chance to get a look inside that goddamned little sketchbook of yours. All you do in class is draw in the stupid thing, and he’s tired of hearing the sounds of pencil scratching against paper as you shade in some dumb drawing. He almost saw it once, as he lingered behind you whilst you were drawing, but you quickly snapped it closed and continued with your class work once you noticed.

But now, he’s hit the jackpot. The teacher had sent you away to collect some textbooks from another classroom, and you’d left your precious sketchbook open on your desk. He didn’t think you’d ever be so careless with it, considering you’ve protected it like it was your newborn baby so far—but for once, he’s grateful to have the seat next to you in class.

However, upon yanking the sketchbook from your desk and flipping through the pages, he’s struck with a very surprising revelation. All he can see, page after page, are drawings of him. All from various angles, most of them of him at his most peaceful, or when he’s lost in thought—such as him writing notes in class, or gazing blankly out of the window. He’s not sure how to feel. There’s a strange feeling in his stomach.

You return to the class, and he quickly shoves the notebook back onto your desk before you can notice that it’d moved—but he can’t stop staring at you as you sit down again. All he’s conscious of is trying to catch you sketching him again, for a chance to confront you. The lesson is the furthest thing from his mind right now.