Chapter 4 Four

Okay, so Drizella didn't exactly plan to become the unofficial queen of library corner, but life was weird like that.

Every morning now, instead of doom-scrolling for texts from some dude who barely knew how to spell commitment (hi Dante 🙃), she woke up and actually looked forward to class. Like, real human excitement. Art History was her jam now. Botticelli? Icon. Michelangelo? Drama king with a chisel. Even the thick, ancient textbook had become her new bestie. (Sorry, Theodore. You're still #1, but this book smells like old parchment and possibility.)

And speaking of possibility...

There was this guy.

Not a capital-G GUY like Dante with the tortured poet act and a side of "emotionally unavailable." Nope. This one was different.

She kept seeing him in class and the library. He had this sketchbook that looked like it'd been through a war – pages falling out, pencil smudges everywhere – but he treated it like it was made of gold. He'd sit with his head tilted, hair flopping into his eyes (yes, of course it was floppy; this is still *somewhat* of a story about feelings), drawing like the fate of the universe depended on perfect shading.

Drizella named him *Sketchbook Guy* in her head. (She didn't know his real name yet, okay? She wasn't a stalker. Chill.)

One Tuesday, she was sitting at her favorite library table – yes, she had a favorite now; adulting – and she was *really* trying to understand this section on linear perspective. But it was written in like, Shakespeare meets IKEA manual. So her face probably looked like 😵‍💫.

And then, boom. A shadow.

"Hey," a voice said, soft but clear, like someone who actually meant to be polite and not pretend-charming. "That book's a brain-melter. Especially the dome stuff."

She blinked up. Sketchbook Guy.

Real. Talking. To her.

Her brain short-circuited. "Oh! Yeah. It's like trying to read ancient alien code."

He laughed. Like, actually laughed – not the sarcastic *pfft* she was used to. "Totally. I'm Adrian, by the way. We're in Professor Thorne's class?"

She shook his hand and tried not to look like a dork. "I'm Drizella. And yes, I've seen you. You're the guy who murders pencils."

His eyes widened for a second, then he laughed again. "Guilty. My sketchbook's basically a crime scene."

And that was it. Just a few lines. But something about him felt... light. No intensity. No weird flirt traps. Just a normal human person being nice. Revolutionary.

---

After that, their paths kept crossing like some kind of chill rom-com that didn't need a dramatic soundtrack. At art history club meetings, they ended up sitting near each other. In class, they sometimes swapped notes or groaned together about pop quizzes. Once, they bumped into each other at the vending machine and had a full debate over whether pretzels were a snack or an obligation. (Spoiler: they both agreed they were trash and celebrated this with chocolate bars.)

Drizella was loving her new life. It was like she'd stepped out of a drama show and into a slice-of-life sitcom. There were still feelings, but they were manageable. Like, she didn't feel like setting things on fire every time a guy looked away.

Also, Adrian? Still cool. Still sketching. Still not weird.

One afternoon, she was doodling a (very rough) anatomical drawing in her notebook, mostly to procrastinate writing a two-page summary about frescoes, when she heard the familiar rustle of that doomed sketchbook.

"That's a good form," Adrian said, nodding at her sketch like he actually meant it.

She blinked. "Seriously? I feel like it looks like a zombie fell down some stairs."

"No, really. You've got the proportions right. The arm's a little... flaily, but it's expressive."

She laughed. "Thanks. That's the nicest way anyone's ever said 'your sketch is flailing.' Want to sit?"

He did. And for a bit, they just sat in silence. Not the awkward kind, either – the peaceful, we-don't-need-to-fill-it kind. Then Adrian said something kind of unexpected.

"I'm applying to this art program abroad. It's like, a long shot, but I've been putting a portfolio together."

Her eyes lit up. "Wait, you're not even an art major?!"

He gave her a sheepish look. "Pre-med."

Her jaw dropped. "You're a secret science kid?! That's betrayal."

"My parents are the science kids. I'm just... trying not to disappoint them. But art is where I feel like me. Not someone's idea of me."

Whoa.

That hit way too hard. She nodded slowly, a little more serious now. "That's really brave, Adrian. To try. Most people don't even do that. They just... let themselves get stuck."

Like I did, she didn't say. But maybe he saw it in her eyes anyway.

He smiled. "Trying's scary. But so is staying still."

And that was the moment. Not a *cue orchestra, the camera spins* moment. Just two people in the library, being honest, eating vending machine chocolate, and not ruining each other's lives.

She liked that moment a lot.

---

Later that week, she found Theodore in their favorite corner of the common room, surrounded by open notebooks, flour on his hoodie (don't ask), and what looked like a prototype of a peanut butter croissant. (Which was either genius or illegal.)

"Okay, update," she said, dropping onto the beanbag next to him. "I officially have a *library friend.* He's cool. And nice. And shockingly not a walking red flag."

Theodore raised an eyebrow. "A guy? Oh no. We need to talk about your taste in men again."

"He's *not* like that. Chill. He actually reads. Like, for fun. And he sketches stuff that looks like... not potatoes."

Theodore popped a piece of the croissant in his mouth. "And he hasn't ghosted you, publicly flirted with your friends, or made you help him with his group project then called you clingy?"

"Nope. Also, I don't even like-like him. Yet." She wiggled her eyebrows for dramatic effect. "Just library vibes."

He mock-sighed. "Okay, okay. I'll allow it. But only if you promise to keep him away from group chats and birthday parties."

Drizella grinned. "Deal. Also, peanut butter croissant? Are you trying to get sued by the French?"

He held up a hand. "It's a *fusion.* I call it... the 'Ameri-croissant.' It's bold. Revolutionary. Slightly illegal."

"I'm scared and intrigued."

"Perfect reaction."

They cracked up, and for the first time in a long time, Drizella felt like her chest wasn't full of broken glass anymore. She was surrounded by laughter, by friends, by a future that wasn't weighed down by a ghost of heartbreak. It was messy. It was loud. It was her life – and it was finally hers.

And yeah, maybe that sketchbook guy would stick around. Or maybe not. But either way, she was good. Really good.

And she never, ever looked for Dante again.