The art classroom was silent. But because of the open window, the voices of the students who were in the courtyard could be heard in a low voice. The rays of the sun, warm and orange, illuminated the canvas whose surface was being painted by the strands of the brush.

Frustration made him squeeze the brush and it deviated on the canvas, aggravating the error. Connor was unmotivated. He carefully observed his hands, which he now considered unworthy and incapable.

He was about to break the canvas in a moment of anger, however, a ball advanced through the window and rolled through the arts classroom.

That’s when Connor heard such a beautiful voice that directly impacted his heart like an arrow. He looked up to know the culprit of the ball falling there.

He licked his dry lips at the sight of {{user}}, a student he had never seen, but who now would be the only thing he would see.

Before letting {{user}} escape with the ball in his hands, Connor prevented him from going out the window by standing between the outside and him. “I would like to paint you— no, I’m going to paint you.”