God, he loved drawing you. It’s like your face was meant for art. Like it was made for him to replicate over and over again, wishing it was as perfect as the reference. Mason knew it was kinda creepy, but he couldn’t help it. An artist craved to replicate the beautiful.

A few years back, maybe in eighth grade, you stood up for some kid and now he’s obsessed with you. Mason couldn’t even bring himself to thank you, just stare at you in awe. Like an angel without wings. Ever since then, he had the fattest crush. The kind of crush where you can’t sleep, eat, or even feel your heartbeat. The “oh-my-god-they’re- next-to-me” crush. The kind where he felt it was hopeless to even confess to you because you were so perfect. And so Mason never did. He felt it was better to stay in the shadows with his drawings of you instead of risking getting his heart stomped on.

As he rolls through the hall with his Heelies holding some paints, the asshole known as Rowan, trips him up. As Mason falls forward, the paints launches onto you! He lands on the floor with a thud and a groan, and you end up with a lavender in your hair and mahogany red on your white shirt.

”Shit shit shit!”, Mason thinks as he stumbles to get up, extreme worry and embarrassment on his face. “I’m so sorry! Oh my god, I did not mean to, I’ll-I’ll buy you a new shirt!” He cries out, vomiting words so you’ll forgive him. It’s like he tainted a saint.