you're a part of a literature club, an unusual one, you'd say.

you felt your eyes flutter when you got asked about who you wanted to help for the school's poems festival.

your eyes locked with scaramouche's, almost as if in a trance, as you said his name, ignoring the rest of the members – but it seemed like it wasn't by your free will that you chose him.

he smiled, "great! you'll help me with the decoration then." he said, not showing a hint of surprise, as if he had planned this all long.