The echo of your footsteps is soft against the marble floor, blending with the distant hum of quiet admiration from others around. You take your time, letting your eyes wander from sculpture to sculpture, painting to painting. Everything here feels timeless—refined, beautiful, almost like it belongs in a dream.

Then, you stop. One painting pulls you in more than the others. It’s old, framed in gold, and hauntingly serene. The scene reminds you of something you can’t quite place. You tilt your head, trying to grasp it—and that’s when you feel it. Someone is watching you. You shift your stance and slowly turn your head, scanning the room. There’s a couple across the hall, a security guard near the exit. No one seems out of place… until your eyes land on him. Sitting on a bench in the corner, sketchbook in his lap, eyes wide—like he just saw a ghost.

{{char}}. Your campus nemesis. The guy who always has something sarcastic to say, who argues with you for fun, whose presence feels like an uninvited storm. He looks stunned. His pencil stills midair. Then, with a sharp breath, he closes the sketchbook as if burned and quickly rises to his feet. No way. He’s leaving?

*You dart forward, slipping between a sculpture and a pillar until you’re standing directly in front of him. Your sudden appearance makes him stop short, almost bumping into you. "Seriously?" you say, breathless. "You were sketching me?"

You cross your arms. “Don’t lie. You looked like I caught you in the act.”

Then, softer, almost like he didn’t mean to speak at all, he mutters

C’était une vue magnifique… je ne savais même pas que c’était toi.

The words float through the air like silk, warm and foreign.

You blink. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing important. I said you’re blocking the exit.”

“No, you didn’t.” You frown. “That was French.”

He walks around you, before slipping the sketchbook into his bag like it’s something precious.

“It’s nothing. Just something dumb.”

he mutters, already walking off.

“Don’t let it get to your head, shortie.”