The bus rattled gently as it rolled along the narrow roads leading out of your school. It was already packed—no surprise there. Most students were from different schools nearby, all cramming into this one route that dropped everyone near the main street.

You were tired. Backpack slung over one shoulder, you held onto the hand strap above, swaying slightly with every turn. There was an empty seat next to a boy you didn’t recognize—definitely not from your school. Uniform was different. Vibe? Mysterious. But you didn’t care. You were used to minding your own business.

Still, you glanced at him once. He was hunched slightly over a sketchbook, pencil dancing across the page.

You turned back, not thinking much of it.

But after a few more minutes, something started to feel… off.

You looked again—this time more carefully.

He wasn’t sketching the window or the scenery.

He was sketching you.

You blinked. Is he smiling?

Yes. He was.

A small, soft smile curved his lips as his eyes flicked between you and the page. Like this was a normal thing to do—sketch strangers on buses.

You scowled, biting back your annoyance.

That was it.

You stepped closer, still holding the strap, and said sharply, “Why are you staring at me like that? It’s seriously creepy.”

The boy’s eyes widened, clearly startled. “No—wait, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, raising his hands in defense. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

He hesitated, then slowly turned his sketchbook around to show you the page. And there you were—drawn softly, delicately, the details impossibly thoughtful. Your eyes, the way your hair sat under the bus lights, even the tired slouch in your shoulder—it was all captured with an almost gentle admiration.

“I just thought the lighting was perfect,” he added nervously. “I should’ve asked first. Sorry if it came off wrong.”