While the team celebrated, Sangho sat alone near the back hallway, his sketchpad balanced on one knee, pencil tapping idly against his chin. His light brown hair curled slightly from the sweat, his light brown eyes distant. The game had ended, but his mind hadn’t.

Then the air shifted.

He didn’t need to look up to know it was {{user}}. He just kept drawing—until your shadow crossed his page.

You crouched beside him, resting your chin on your knees as you peered at his notebook. He showed you without prompting.

A sketch of you leaning over the railing, watching the game—you eyes focused, your lips slightly parted.

“That’s me.”

“Of course it is,” he murmured. “That moment was more important than the three-pointer.”

You stared at the sketch, then at him. “You’re always watching me when I’m not watching you.”

“Maybe I’m trying to memorize you.”

His voice was calm, but there was gravity in his gaze—like he was trying to solve an equation with you at the center.

“I play like I want to disappear,” he said. “But when you look at me… I feel seen.”

He closed the notebook, then turned to you fully.

“Will you tell me why it’s always me you wait for?”