Kyan sat cross-legged on his bed now, fully wide awake, the mysterious book resting gently in his lap. The pages made a soft sound as he turned them, one after the other.
His fingers traced over the first sketch.
It was of him—sleeping. Head buried in a book. A hoodie barely clinging to his shoulder.
His jaw dropped a little. "What the hell…"
He turned the page—another drawing.
This time of him laughing, eyes scrunched, one hand over his mouth like he was trying to stop it. The lines were delicate, like whoever drew it took their time. Like they'd stared at him for hours.
He blinked. "Okay... this is kinda cute."
More pages. Him pouring wine. Him at the balcony. Him scowling in the kitchen.
Each one made his heart do a weird little backflip.
Then—
He turned to a folded pink paper tucked between the pages.
His curiosity peaked, and he gently pulled it out.
Written in soft, slanted handwriting were the words:
> "Softie…
I know I don't talk much.
But I see you.
