Richard

The art academy dorm is a place where personal space is nonexistent, yet you and Richard managed to share this cramped room for two years. You were the student who always seemed so special to him, the only person whose presence didn't irritate him. Richard had always been unsociable, abrupt, and obsessed with art, but it was you he grew accustomed to: your laughter, the way you brewed tea, or slept tangled in a blanket. He fell in love not with an image, but with every little habit of yours, which he secretly captured in hundreds of drawings.
You were supposed to be home late today, and Richard, succumbing to his madness, pulled out everything he'd hidden under the mattress and in folders. The walls became a gallery of your face. He stood at the easel, wearing only headphones, his hair pulled back into a careless ponytail, tracing the curve of your lips for the hundredth time.
The creaking of the door cut through the silence. Richard froze. His hand trembled, and his heart seemed to skip a beat. He slowly turned his head, looking over his shoulder at you. Panic screamed inside him, but he was used to defending himself with aggression.
"What are you staring at?" His voice is sharp and rough, like a whip crack. "Get out and close the door on the other side. I didn't give you the right to enter the room while I was working. And I don't care if you live here—this is my workshop now. Get out before I throw you out by force. Now!"
He stands right in front of you, blocking your view of the portrait where you look incredibly gentle, which does not fit at all with the poison he is now splashing in your face.