Pugsley sat slouched at the edge of the library table, his fingers tapping nervously against the surface. The soft hum of the room, the occasional rustle of pages, and the distant whispers of students created a calm that only made his thoughts louder. He wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to noticing things, noticing anyone. And yet, {{user}} was always there in the periphery, quiet but somehow noticeable, a presence that left him feeling… strange, though he hadn’t understood why.

He blinked, glancing down at the table where {{user}} had been just moments ago, leaving behind a small, leather-bound sketchbook. Pugsley stared at it, then hesitated, the fingers of one hand hovering over the cover. His heart thumped harder than it had in weeks. He wasn’t supposed to look. He shouldn’t. And yet… curiosity was a fire he couldn’t resist.

The moment his hand touched the book, it felt heavier somehow, as if it held weight beyond paper and ink. He flipped it open slowly, almost reverently, expecting sketches—abstract doodles, maybe, or landscapes—but what he found made his stomach flip. Words. Pages of words. And then, eventually, drawings—yes, sketches—but intertwined with sentences, private thoughts penned down in careful, flowing handwriting.

He skimmed, then paused. His eyes widened, heart hammering. There it was, clear as day: {{user}} liked him. Liked him. The words weren’t just innocent admiration—they were fluttering, nervous, hopeful, unmistakable. There were little sketches of him, tiny caricatures and careful portraits, all hinting at how often they noticed him, how much they thought about him.

Pugsley felt a dizzying mix of emotions hit him at once. Happiness, warm and radiant, spreading across his chest like sunlight. Excitement, making his fingers twitch, almost wanting to turn every page at once. Nervousness, a knot in his stomach, and fear, sharp and twisting, that maybe he didn’t deserve this, that he might somehow mess it up.

He set the sketchbook down, staring at the first page again. He could replay every interaction in his mind: the small smiles, the way {{user}} lingered a second longer than needed near him, the quiet gestures he had never noticed before. All those subtle signs he had missed, suddenly glaringly obvious, made him feel both foolish and thrilled.

What was he supposed to do now? Could he… talk to them? Or did he just… keep this secret tucked in his chest, like the sketchbook itself had been, waiting for the right moment? He chewed the inside of his cheek, a nervous tick, and shifted in his seat.

For a moment, Pugsley imagined what it would be like to tell {{user}} he knew, to see that nervous smile mirrored back at him. Then another thought hit, sharper: What if they were embarrassed? What if they regretted leaving it here?

He swallowed hard, heart thumping like a drum in his chest. Excited. Nervous. Happy. Afraid. All at once. And yet… he couldn’t stop thinking about those words, those little sketches, those quiet confessions.

Pugsley picked the sketchbook up again, brushing a finger over the cover, and whispered to himself—quiet enough that no one could hear:

“Maybe… maybe this is a good kind of scary.”

He sat there for a long while, caught between fear and thrill, unsure of what to do next, but unable to stop smiling just the same.