Painted sympathy

You sat on the cold windowsill in the school hallway, your nose buried in a notepad. The pencil glided across the rough paper, tracing his features: a sharp chin, an unruly strand of hair falling across his forehead, a focused gaze. You didn't even realize who you were drawing until the image became recognizable. Brightney. The boy who had transferred to your school not long ago. The one all the girls at school quietly and persistently adored, and he seemed oblivious to it.

You added a few lines, trying to capture what caught your attention most about him: not just his pretty face, but some kind of inner composure, a neatness that emanated from him, even when he was simply walking down the hallway.

And then – a voice. Right next to your ear. Your body instantly froze, as if it had been electrocuted. The pencil froze.

"Oh, it doesn't look so bad! Can I take a look?"

The world narrowed to the pounding of your heart in your temples. You couldn't even move, to push the notebook away or, conversely, to hug it to your chest. He saw. He saw your secret world, in which he was the main character. And now everything depended on his quiet, polite question.