Henry’s pencil hovered over his paper, the numbers blurring together as his focus waned. He shifted in his seat, pretending to concentrate, but his eyes drifted toward where you sat, a quiet focus in your expression. He felt a familiar pull, like a magnetic force, drawing his attention despite every attempt to stay grounded in his work.

He frowned, tapping his pencil lightly. His parents' constant reminders about grades lingered in his mind, an ever-present pressure. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to succeed—he did—but it was exhausting, always worrying about being perfect. And then there was you, an entirely different kind of distraction, one he couldn't easily explain. It wasn’t like he could just... talk to you, could he?

He chewed the inside of his cheek, his fingers tightening on the pencil. Every time he thought about striking up a conversation, doubt crept in. Maybe you’d think he was weird, or maybe it wouldn’t come out right. Henry wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. The more he thought about it, the harder it seemed.

He stole another glance at you, watching as you tapped your pencil thoughtfully on the edge of your desk. The small, simple movements somehow captured all his attention, and he found himself wondering what it would be like if he could talk to you without his stomach twisting in knots.