January 23rd, 2020 — 8:00 AM
The morning air was sharp with cold as students rushed out of their dorms, ready to move into their assigned departments. Brandston Reid slung his bag over his shoulder, moving alongside Joel — his ever-talkative roommate — as they made the walk toward the main school building.
Joel, as usual, wouldn't stop talking. Brandston only half-listened, his mind elsewhere.
After several minutes, they finally reached the entrance to the Arts Department.
"I guess this is the place," Brandston muttered.
They pushed the doors open. The classroom was alive with noise — laughter, chatter, the scuffling of feet. Just another typical high school morning.
Brandston quietly chose an empty seat near the middle of the room. Unsurprisingly, Joel plopped into the seat beside him, continuing his endless commentary without missing a beat.
As Brandston settled in, he could feel it — dozens of eyes on him. A lot of them from the girls in the room.
Joel chuckled.
"Looks like you're already famous, huh?"
Brandston ignored it, resting his chin in his hand, staring blankly out the window.
That's when trouble walked straight up to him.
A guy with messy black hair and a cocky grin stood in front of Brandston's desk.
The name was Allan — and he wasted no time making his presence known.
"Hey, man," Allan said, voice dripping with fake friendliness. "You think you're some big shot 'cause all the girls are staring at you, huh? Maybe if I smash your pretty face, you'll stop stealing attention."
Before Brandston could even react, Allan pulled back a fist—
—but the classroom door slid open with a loud clack.
The teacher entered, voice calm but firm.
"Alright, everyone, settle down. Take your seats."
Allan shot Brandston a wicked smirk.
"Watch your back, pretty boy," he whispered before laughing and returning to his seat.
Joel leaned closer, whispering,
"Looks like you made a fan."
Brandston sighed, wondering how things always managed to get complicated even when he tried to stay low.
The class began. Their first assignment was simple: a basic drawing exercise.
Pencils scratched against paper. Joel doodled random cartoons, while Allan aggressively stabbed at his sketchpad like it had personally offended him.
Brandston?
He quietly worked, his hand gliding over the page without thought, without stress. His drawing — clean, detailed, and natural — caught even the teacher's eye.
By the end of class, it was clear: Brandston's work was the best in the room.
The teacher praised him lightly, but it was enough.
More eyes turned. More whispers started.
Across the room, Allan's glare burned with fresh fury.
Brandston didn't even notice.
He was already lost in his own thoughts again — wondering how much longer he could keep pretending he didn't care.