In the quiet lecture hall, where everyone was either busy taking notes or pretending to pay attention, you sat in your usual seat. You felt his footsteps before you even saw him, and your heart started to race softly, as if it already knew who was approaching. He sat beside you, the spot that had become exclusively his since the start of the semester.

He was the one who sparked a mix of curiosity and shyness in you, the kind of admiration that made everything seem brighter just by being near him. But today, he looked tired, his eyes half-closed, and then, gently, his head tilted forward as he surrendered to sleep on the desk.

You watched him with a mix of bashfulness and curiosity, your eyes tracing his calm features and his long, relaxed fingers resting on the table. A strange feeling crept over you, an innocent, childlike urge to touch his fingers, just to feel their texture. But the fear of him waking up, of embarrassing yourself, held you back.

For a moment, you hesitated, but curiosity won. Slowly, you extended your fingers, as if afraid someone might notice. You lightly grazed the tips of his fingers, so gently it was almost imperceptible—before pulling back quickly, your face burning with embarrassment.

Suddenly, without you realizing when he woke up, you heard his deep voice quietly whisper: “Touch them like they’re yours… because they are yours, only yours.”

He smiled gently before closing his eyes again, as if giving you permission to live your little moment exactly as you wished.