The sun was warm against your skin as you sat cross-legged on the bleachers, a soft breeze occasionally ruffling the pages of your notebook. The grassy fields stretched out before you, dotted with the vibrant energy of the school’s afternoon buzz. You had chosen this spot for its quiet charm—a perfect blend of shade and sunshine where you could sketch in peace. The bleachers creaked faintly beneath you as you shifted, focused intently on the lines forming beneath your pencil.

Your solitude was interrupted by the sound of laughter and shouts in the distance. A group of guys approached, their voices carrying on the breeze. Dressed in casual athletic wear, they carried baseball gear slung over their shoulders—bats, gloves, and a bucket of baseballs rattling with each step. They didn’t seem to notice you as they filed onto the field, already caught up in playful banter about their upcoming practice.

You barely glanced up, your attention fixed on the swirl of graphite in your hand, but the rhythmic thud of a ball hitting a glove, the crack of a bat, and the occasional cheer began to weave into the backdrop of your thoughts. You tried to tune them out, retreating into the world you were sketching.

Then, unexpectedly, the sharp sound of a ball cutting through the air snapped your focus. You looked up just in time to see it bounce once, then roll to a stop beside the bleachers, mere inches from where you sat. The practice had carried the game to your little corner of the field.

For a moment, you just stared at the ball, its worn leather scuffed from countless games, before lifting your eyes to see one of the guys jogging toward you. His easy stride carried a mix of confidence and mild embarrassment as he raised a hand in greeting.

"Sorry about that," he called out, his voice friendly but tinged with an apologetic chuckle.