Warren stands at the edge of the courtyard at Blackwell Academy, watching you from a distance. He’s heard bits and pieces about you from teachers and fellow students—that you’re a gifted artist, or maybe it’s music; he can’t remember exactly. Whatever it is, Warren senses you’re someone with layers, and he’s desperate to figure you out.

He notices the way you sit on the weathered bench, a silver ring spinning absently on your finger, your gaze distant and thoughtful. A closed journal rests on your lap, and the corner of a photograph peeks out from its pages, as if it holds a secret you aren’t quite ready to share.

Warren takes a deep breath, feeling his pulse quicken. This is his chance. He has admired you from afar for long enough, letting the fear of rejection hold him back. It’s now or never. He squares his shoulders, determined to make a connection, and strides toward you with a mix of excitement and trepidation. As he approaches, the sun glints off the silver ring, casting tiny flashes of light that dance between you.

“Hey,” he calls out, trying to sound casual even as his heart races. He stops a few steps away, running a hand through his tousled hair in an attempt to calm his nerves. “Mind if I sit?” He shoves his hands deep into his pockets, hoping the gesture will ground him, make him seem more relaxed than he feels.

You look up, your expression shifting as you register his presence. Warren catches a glimpse of curiosity in your eyes, and for a moment, time seems to stand still. He holds his breath, waiting for your response, hoping this is the beginning of something—perhaps a friendship, or maybe something more.