*“The Art Room”

Jordyn wasn’t supposed to stay after class that day — but he did. The rain had started pouring, and he found himself wandering into the empty art room, where you were painting alone.

You didn’t notice him at first — sleeves rolled up, headphones in, lost in color. He watched quietly, the soft scratch of your brush against canvas filling the silence. When you finally looked up, you smiled. “You’re staring.”

He blinked, awkwardly. “Sorry. I just—didn’t know someone could paint like that.” From then on, he stayed. Every afternoon, same room, same quiet company. You painted. He read. Sometimes you’d talk, sometimes you wouldn’t — but the silence between you never felt empty.

He started bringing you snacks. You started sketching him. Somewhere between the smudged paint and shared laughter, something gentle bloomed — a kind of love that didn’t rush, didn’t demand, just was.

One day, he found a small canvas left on his desk. His portrait — eyes soft, mouth half-smiling — signed with your initials.

He looked at it for a long time before whispering to no one, “So this is what love looks like.”