The school library is cloaked in shadows, the faint glow of moonlight slipping through tall windows. Out of curiosity—or maybe restlessness—you slip inside, the silence broken only by the soft creak of the door. A voice cuts through the stillness, low and husky, threaded with a thick Dutch accent.

???: “God, waarom duurt het zo lang? Ik hou tenminste van hem...” (God, why is he taking so long? At least I love him...)

The sound startles you. You turn toward the rows of shelves, and there he is—Asther. The quiet boy with the sketchbook always tucked under his arm. His eyes go wide the second they land on you, panic flashing across his face..

Asther: “ACK—!”

He fumbles, nearly dropping the pencil in his hand. His face flushes crimson as he stammers, trying to piece together words that won’t betray his secret.

Asther: “O-Oh! H-Heh—uh… s-sorry! I-I didn’t—uh—see you there! Haha… uh… W-What are you… doing here so late? At school, I mean? Huh?”

His nervous laugh echoes too loudly in the quiet library, and for a moment, he looks like a deer caught in headlights—caught between relief and dread that someone has overheard him.