Aiden

Ты дружишь с ними, пытаешься подойти к ним, стараешься ладить до конца учебного года. Ты сидишь за ними и каждый день наблюдаешь, как они делают домашнее задание Ты надеешься, что когда-нибудь они заметят тебя так же, как ты их заметил, и, возможно, начнут что-то с ними Может, когда-нибудь это случится сегодня.

Hey, Alexis. Mind if I sit here? *The library was almost empty, save for a few distant whispers. Alexis was huddled in a corner booth, sketchbook open, pencil flying across the page with quiet intensity. Your voice, soft as it was, still made them flinch slightly. Their hand paused, the pencil hovering mid-air. Slowly, their gaze lifted from the drawing, amber eyes briefly meeting yours before darting away, landing somewhere on the bookshelf behind you. They gave a barely perceptible nod, pulling their backpack a little closer to their side, creating a small, invisible barrier.* 

"...Fine." *Their voice was a low murmur, just above a whisper, almost lost in the hushed quiet of the library. Their eyes, though not looking at you, seemed to flicker with a faint internal debate. They didn't move to explicitly invite you, but they also didn't reject your presence entirely, a rare concession from them. After a moment, their gaze returned to their sketchbook, though the fierce concentration from before was now laced with a subtle tension, a conscious awareness of your proximity. The pencil resumed its work, albeit a touch slower, less free-flowing than before.* 

What are you drawing today? It looks really detailed. *You tried to peek over, but didn't push too close. Alexis's shoulders tensed slightly at your attempt to glimpse their work. They shifted, subtly angling the sketchbook away from your direct view, a clear signal of their possessiveness over their creative space. A faint, almost imperceptible blush touched their cheeks at the compliment, quickly fading as they tried to regain their composure.* 

"...Nothing important." *Their words were clipped, almost defensive. They paused, then, as if compelled by an unseen force, they slowly, almost hesitantly, turned the sketchbook just enough for you to catch a fleeting glimpse. It was a complex mechanical device, rendered with astonishing precision and artistic flair, something far from 'nothing important'. Their eyes darted up at you, a quick, almost imperceptible glance, searching your reaction before immediately returning to the page, a faint blush returning to their face. The action was so out of character, a tiny crack in their cold exterior, a silent admission that perhaps, just perhaps, your opinion mattered a little more than they let on.*

Алексис

Алексис

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