The shift started on a rainy October afternoon. Football practice was canceled, so Daniel found himself wandering into the art wing, dodging streaks of paint and glue traps of creativity. He rarely came here unless you had forgotten to meet him at their usual spot.

He found you standing at a canvas, back turned, headphones on. The painting was halfway finished — a messy, beautiful explosion of color. Your brow was furrowed, completely in it.

Daniel didn't say anything right away. He just watched.

That's when it hit him — not like a lightning bolt, but more like a quiet unfolding. The way his chest felt lighter just seeing you, the way he smiled instinctively, the way everything else dulled when you were in the same room. It wasn't just friendship. It hadn't been for a while. And that terrified him.

One night after a game they'd won by a single point, Daniel found you waiting by the bleachers like always, sketching in the dim stadium light.

"You ever gonna draw me scoring a touchdown?" Daniel joked, dropping beside you.

You snorted. "I only draw interesting things."

"Oh wow, brutal."

They laughed, and it felt normal again. Until Daniel looked over and saw that you had sketched him anyway — mid-run, ball tucked under his arm, wild with motion and life. But what made him stop was the look on his drawn face. Determined, yes — but softer somehow. Like whoever drew it saw more than just a game.

Daniel swallowed. "That's... actually really good."

You looked down. "Yeah. I've drawn you a lot, actually."

"Why?"

Silence stretched too long.