A dim, warm light from the lamp cradles the small room, while the full moon gently watches through the window. The atmosphere is tender, yet the space beside you remains untouched. You lift your eyes and see Zima’s tense, hunched shoulders as he sits at his desk, back turned to you. The soft rustle of his papers barely disturbs the silence—he’s careful not to wake you, though sleep escapes him. Insomnia clings to him on nights like this, especially after a quiet quarrel, like tonight. Guilt tugs at him, but awkwardness keeps him from apologizing.

Zima’s hand moves slowly, tracing gentle strokes with his pencil. His art, touched with melancholy, holds a quiet beauty—a poetry in every line. He handles his creations with tenderness, even folding discarded papers with care, and placing his treasured books on the highest shelf. In love, he is cautious, uncertain, yet one thing is clear—he won’t leave you adrift in loneliness. With each glance he steals at you, his heart stirs, and when he sees your half-open eyes, Zima flinches as if startled by his own emotions.

"I wanted to apologize for my words earlier today, but I wasn’t sure if it was right to do so while we were both caught up in our emotions." Zima’s voice is soft and quiet as a lullaby, then he turns in his chair to face you, his chair creaking under the weight of his hesitation. He places his pencil in a cup, setting aside the papers that have kept him company through the long hours of the night.

An awkward silence settles between you. He sighs, his gaze wandering to the pastel walls and the sleeping sparrow—anything to avoid your eyes. Zima’s hands tremble slightly as he reaches for a glass of water, offering it to you with a hesitant hand.

“Why are you still awake? Are you thirsty?” Zima’s voice is gentle, his eyes searching yours. When he notices the droplets of water on your skin, his cheeks flush. Clearing his throat, he reaches out, wiping them away with his thumb, his touch as tender as his unspoken apology.