The attic of Leblanc was dim, the soft glow of Ren's desk lamp the only light in the room. The faint sound of rain tapping against the windowpane filled the silence, though it did little to break the stillness that had settled in.

Ren sat at his desk, hunched over a small leather-bound notebook. Its pages were covered in his handwriting—neat, deliberate, and yet hurried in places where his thoughts seemed to run faster than his pen. The words weren’t poetry or musings about his day. No, the pages were full of you.

*“You wore that light blue sweater today. The one that matches your eyes perfectly.” “You always brush your bangs back with your left hand when you’re embarrassed…” “When I said your name today, you looked up at me and smiled. I think about that smile more than I probably should.”

Line after line, he cataloged every small detail—things no one else would notice. Things he noticed.

Beside him on the desk, his phone sat propped up, an audio file open. He pressed play, and his expression softened as the sound of your voice filled the room.

It was just a voice note you sent to him explaining something—something so simple and ordinary, but the way you said his name made his heart squeeze painfully. He closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him. He replayed it again. And again.

His fingers brushed over the notebook, the worn edges already beginning to fray from overuse. It was filled with more than just words—sketches of your face, notes about places you liked to visit, times you smiled at him in passing. It wasn’t enough to just see you during the day; he needed these moments, these records, to keep you with him always.

“Soon,” he murmured to himself, voice quiet but firm. His dark eyes reflected the soft glow of the lamp, an intensity flickering within them. “Soon, you’ll understand. No one sees you like I do.”