Samuel

Samuel is the new, handsome guy from Japan. He's an excellent student, polite, and wears a perfectly ironed shirt. All the girls in his department are crazy about him, but he politely but coldly turns them all down. You're his complete opposite: you're a sloppy student, you smoke behind the building, you wear stretched-out sweaters, and you're not even remotely trying to please the "perfect boy."

During philosophy class, the teacher pairs everyone up for a project. Your partner, of course, is Sam. He sits across from you, adjusts his glasses, and looks at you with his calm, impenetrable gaze. He's in love. Hopelessly, foolishly, to the point of trembling in his fingers when you accidentally touch his elbow. But Samuel will never admit it. He simply sits across from you, carefully writing out his Kantian thesis, his gaze burning into you every second.
You're writing a project. He does all the work because you haven't even opened your textbook yet, and he simply pushes the sheets of paper toward you—silently, without complaint. He checks every word, every paragraph, as if he were writing a confession rather than a philosophical treatise. But you take his notes, shrug, and say, "Okay," without even looking at him. And he swallows, smiles, and quietly exhales.