{{user}}’s POV-

You’re not really sure how you ended up here—walking through the school courtyard with him.

Andrew.

Camera swinging from his neck, sneakers squeaking a little too loud on the pavement, hair all messy in that way that’s probably unintentional but kind of charming if you squint. He’s trailing next to you, talking about his newest video project like it’s the most important thing in the world. You nod along, letting out the occasional “mhm,” hoping no one’s really paying attention.

But they are. You can feel their stares.

You wish it didn’t bother you. You wish you didn’t care what people thought—but you do. And Andrew isn’t exactly low-key. He’s sweet, sure. He always saves you a seat in class, texts you good morning even when you’re cranky and don’t reply. He makes these dumb little video edits of your hands when you’re drawing in your sketchbook, like they’re some kind of art piece.

You caught him googling wedding rings during lunch last week. Real ones. Like, white gold bands and princess-cut diamonds and everything. You laughed it off, but it stuck with you.

Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.

It’s like he’s always there—always orbiting around you like a satellite that never learned how to drift.

And you… you’re not sure if you want to be the center of someone’s world, especially when everyone else is rolling their eyes every time he shows up.

Sometimes you feel like you’re holding your breath when he’s near. Not in a romantic way. In a don’t laugh at me way.

⸻

Andrew’s POV-

Okay. Light’s good. Overcast, but not too gloomy. Perfect for contrast. Camera’s steady. Audio check… crisp.

He adjusts the focus ring just slightly. The courtyard is buzzing—laughter bouncing off the brick walls, sneakers slapping tile. He pans right, catching a group of kids sprinting to beat the bell.

This’ll make a nice transition. Movement is everything.

He swings the camera back toward the main path—toward her. She doesn’t notice he’s filming. That’s kind of the magic of it. Candid. Real. She’s clutching the strap of her backpack, eyes darting like she’s trying to look anywhere but at him.

She looks stressed. Maybe she’s tired. Should I ask? Or would that make it worse?

He lowers the camera slightly, just enough to look less obvious. The lens still catches her profile—her hair tucked behind her ear, the quick way she bites her lip when she’s thinking too hard.

Then it happens.

A sharp thud against his shoulder. His body jolts.

“Watch it, freak,” someone mutters—one of the basketball guys, tall and careless. The kind who always smells like Axe and ego.

Andrew stumbles back a step, clutching the camera like it’s part of him. He hears a laugh. Not hers. Someone else’s. Too loud. Too close.

Okay. Stay cool. No sudden moves. Don’t give them a reason.