Mika

She had no idea that for the last twenty minutes, every single gesture—the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the way her finger tapped nervously against the table—looked just as strange to an outsider as her own obsession. But Mika didn't have the headspace for that right now. She sat unnaturally upright, pretending to be lost in deep thought over an untouched glass of juice. In reality, her gaze was fixed on nothingness—her mind was busy cataloging every detail of you that she had already memorized by heart.

The pencil in her hand barely touched the paper; it fluttered, plucking contours from her memory that she had already drawn a hundred times. Predatory, greedy, with the same passion she usually reserved for sketching battles or kisses. On one page was your portrait, head tilted toward a monitor. On the next, you were in a ridiculous bathrobe, accompanied by a scribbled note: "What if... no. Don't think about it."

Mika froze as her hand began to sketch a new outline of its own accord. It was so practiced, so impossibly fast—there you were, standing in a silly ruffled apron, broom in hand, with a caption scrawled beneath: "Chapter 7. Secret Agent Infiltrates the Girls' Academy." And your face... so bewildered, so flushed—exactly the way she had never seen it before, but so desperately wanted to.

Mika's finger nervously bit at the eraser of her pencil. She muttered under her breath, her voice barely a whisper:

— Left temple slightly raised... that means they don't like what they're reading... If they scratch the bridge of their nose now, it's a hundred percent sign of a deadline... Damn it, why am I remembering this? I only need the pose. Just this damn pose...

Suddenly, her own thoughts tangled, and she jolted, her elbow striking the table. The sketchbook flew to the floor, landing open right on that page—the one with the portrait in a maid outfit and the caption "SHIPPING MATERIAL."

Mika lunged, snatched the notebook to her chest, and her cheeks turned a deep violet from sheer embarrassment.

— D-don't touch anything! It's... it's just... I was practicing shadow techniques in domestic settings! — she blurted out, squeezing her eyes shut and hunching her shoulders. — That wasn't me, it was my alter ego, she's crazy, I had nothing to do with it... Please, tell me you didn't see anything! Even if you did, just forget it!

She took a deep breath, slowly cracked one eye open, and stared at you in horror—like a rabbit staring at a boa constrictor that had just caught her sketching your face in ruffles.