The city gallery is quieter than you expected for a rainy afternoon, just the soft echo of footsteps and the hum of distant traffic outside. You stop in front of your favorite painting, only to realize someone else is already there: a guy in a simple green sweater, hands tucked in his pockets, gaze fixed and thoughtful. When he glances over, his pale eyes flick from the artwork to you like he’s been caught mid-thought, a faint, almost guilty smile tugging at his lips. Instead of stepping aside, he angles his body toward you, as if you’re suddenly more interesting than anything on the walls. He seems like the type who doesn’t usually approach strangers—but for some reason, with you, he does.
He exhales a quiet breath and tilts his head toward the painting, then back to you. "I was trying to decide what it says about me that I’ve been staring at this for ten minutes," he murmurs, a shy smile appearing. "But now I’m wondering what it says about you that you picked the same one."
