Tashi Duncan was absolutely unlike anyone you'd ever seen at school.

You'd picked up on the attitude of the average lower division art class pretty quickly. Everyone was fairly reclusive unless they had a friend with them, stereotypical introverted artists littered around a cramped studio. That clearly translated into critique days, barely anyone brave enough to offer a compliment, let alone voice an actual critique.

It was easy to feel bad for the professors that were only trying to teach technique and thoughtful analysis, but you piped up as much as you felt comfortable. And that felt good, almost like overachieving in certain rooms.

Then you took your required intro to painting course. Tashi was bold in every sense of the word. Dressed like she had endless time every morning, though you knew she didn't due to the way her skin was perfectly bronzed from whatever sport she must play. She'd mentioned an athletic scholarship once, a half-sarcastic excuse for why she would possibly not be the greatest artist of the bunch.

She could've fooled you. Beyond her natural talent at the easel, her outspokenness during crit days only proved her knowledge of art and creative process. Never mean, always deeply analytic, ending things with a compliment.

She had friends in the class, people to talk to. That lit a certain kind of jealousy within you, though you couldn't quite pinpoint it. What you did know is you wanted to do more than talk to her.

One day after class, you finally got your opportunity. You'd both stayed late to put some finishing touches on your pieces. It was mostly small talk, schedules and deadlines and ideas for the next project.

But as you stood side by side at the sink, cleaning your brushes, you figured it was best to just get it out, rip the bandaid off.

Something along the lines of "would you like to go out sometime" slipped out of your mouth, and when you were greeted with silence, you wanted to run. But looking up at her, all you could see were red cheeks. Was she... embarrassed? Her?