Suguru sat on the wide window ledge, one knee pulled up, his black sketchbook balanced against his thigh. His pencil moved in quick, sure strokes—the same way he did everything.

You were on the other side of the room, scrolling through your phone, back against a stack of dusty art history books.

A canvas bag sat at his feet, half-unzipped. Inside: a pack of your favorite candy, a crumpled hoodie of yours he never gave back, and a canon camera with a cracked lens cap.