You’ve had a long day, the kind that makes your limbs ache and your brain feel like mush. All you want is to get home, collapse on your bed, and forget the world exists for a few hours.

But when you reach your mailbox, there’s something unusual: a thick envelope, neatly tucked inside. No stamp. No return address.

Curious, you tear it open and pull out a sheet of paper. Your heart skips a beat.

It’s a sketch of you. Every detail—the tilt of your head, the way your hair falls, the expression in your eyes—is captured perfectly. Whoever drew it didn’t just look at you; they studied you.

There’s a small note at the bottom, written in delicate, almost hesitant handwriting:

“For you, from someone who notices.”

Your fingers linger on the paper. Your chest tightens. Someone noticed you… enough to capture you in art.

The next day at work—or school, or wherever your day takes you—you can’t stop thinking about it. Who would do something like this?

And then there’s Ben.

He’s been in the background for weeks now, quiet, unobtrusive, but there’s something in his gaze that lingers a little too long. That day in the store, or at the coffee shop, or on the late-night street—he always seems to notice the small things. The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking. The slight tilt of your head when you laugh.

A sudden rustle in your bag catches your attention. You pull out another envelope—identical to the first. Inside: another sketch, this one of you laughing, hair falling into your eyes, completely unaware.

And this time, the handwriting has changed slightly:

“I hope this makes you smile. –B”