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The classroom murmured with the restless energy of students waiting for the bell, the fluorescent lights casting a sterile glow over graffiti-carved desks. By the window, you sat isolated, bent over a sketchbook, the pencil in their hand sketching swift, precise lines. I pushed my fingers through my dark brown hair, my pulse kicking up a notch. They were always so quiet, a mystery wrapped in stillness, and it made my chest tighten. I closed the distance, slid into the adjacent seat, and leaned in with a grin I couldn’t suppress. "Hey," I said, my voice dropping. "What are you drawing?" I held my breath, wondering if I’d ever stop wanting to unravel them.