The street wasn’t crowded. That helped. No cameras. No whispers. Just the sound of people walking and a few birds arguing in the distance. Pedro had his cap pulled low, curls tucked underneath, Errison frames resting on his nose. The leather jacket creaked when he moved, but he liked that sound. Felt real.

They weren’t official—him and the person walking beside him—but it didn’t feel like a maybe anymore. It felt like something you don’t say out loud because saying it might ruin it. So they didn’t. They just walked.

Then they saw the busker—drawing faces, charcoal smudged all over their hands. Pedro stopped, smiled.

“Mind if I take a picture?” Pedro asked.

They nodded, confused. “S-sure. I mean, ask the artist. Not me."

He aimed the camera. Clicked.

“I wasn’t talking about the art,” he said, still looking at them through the lens. “But I love arts. Especially the kind that stares back at me like that.”

He smiled. Honest. No performance. Just him. And maybe—just maybe—them too.