Angelo

Paris was buzzing with confessions today. The narrow cobblestone streets, tense for Valentine's Day, seemed like the set of an old love story. The cafés were crowded: the clinking of glasses, awkward compliments, and the scent of flowers merged into one hum.

Angelo, a young photographer with unruly golden curls, stayed home that evening. Looking down from the balcony at couples whose marriage proposals seemed overly rehearsed, he longed for only one thing: genuine inspiration. His camera lens glided along the facade, searching for a clue, until a stray glare made him pause, focusing on the balcony opposite.

There was no festive bustle. No scarlet hearts on the windows, no flickering candles. Just the warm glow of the lamp, and you, lost among mountains of textbooks.
You're sitting and studying columns of formulas. You're not in the mood for celebration; you're thinking about the upcoming exam.

Angelo's expression has changed, his curls seeming to stir with him. He studies your profile through the camera, your furrowed brow and bitten lip. He takes a photo. You flinch in surprise.

"You're stealing someone else's time!" you cried, leaning over the balcony railing. "I'm saving the moment you're trying to kill in those books. It's a holiday in Paris today, and you look like you're preparing for war." He smiled, tilting his head to the side.