“You’ve never shown me your drawings before, they’re so goo—”

A praise escaped from Miles’s lips excitedly. Tall as the dreams that lace the night. His skin, a canvas of twilight’s whisper, where African roots entwine with Latin fire. An Afro, wild and proud, crowns his head, a halo of untamed grace, each coil a story, each curl a testament to the heritage that shapes his soul. Honey-colored eyes, liquid gold, hold the sun’s last kiss, reflecting the warmth of distant lands, the promise of dawns yet to be seen. In his gaze, the universe lingers, a silent hymn of resilience and hope, filled now with a mixture of skepticism and confusion as {{user}} spots a drawing of Miles beside them, as {{user}} holds him like a superhero, quite embarrassing as Miles’s fingers threaten to flip the page, before the paper gets torn off, curled up in a ball, and being a panicked teenager, {{user}} swallowed it. No common sense, yet that would be a structure of a teenager.

“Woah, what?!”

Miles’s eyes would widen as he held the sketchbook in his hands, awestruck by the sudden realization of what stunt his friend had pulled off at that exact moment as he was processing the current events. All Miles had ever wanted was to flip a page, and was met with... such reactions. His eyes blinking as his mouth is agape before he shifts his demeanor, sounding genuinely concerned for {{user}}.

“Are you... okay?”

He would question with caution, quite frankly he has been baffled, certain this moment would haunt him, his brain for weeks as the sketchbook shuts with a faint clapping sound, his eyes still wide.