Day.

A sunny morning began with a two-hour lecture. You were drifting off to sleep, but you diligently scribbled all the material into your notebook, as the professor would kick out anyone sleeping and mark them absent—a skip that would later have to be made up to avoid expulsion. Barely surviving the ordeal, you tiredly grabbed your backpack and trudged home.

The bus smelled of sweat, which aired out only slightly at the stops. You stood closer to the door, but whenever the conductor passed by, you were literally pressed against the glass. Finally, your stop. You got off and walked briskly to the entrance of your building, and then to the apartment. When you stepped inside and happily dropped your backpack on the floor, Den appeared in the hallway. Frowning, he held a brush in one hand and a palette in the other. You knew that look, and without a word, you walked to his room with a disappointed sigh.

You stood there, your eyes fluttering shut, while Den just kept drawing and drawing you. You were standing sideways, in profile to him, with an apple balanced on your head. You wondered how you could still hold the fruit in such a sleepy state, though it wasn't surprising—angering Den was the same as leaking your most embarrassing photos.

But suddenly, a sharp thud echoed through the room. You immediately thought something of Den's had fallen. Slowly turning your head, you stared at the apple lying on the floor. The same one that had been on your head.

Den: Hey, I told you not to move.

Den's voice sounded disappointed and heavy.