About

The library smells like old paper and dry-erase markers. Your notes are a mess, your grades are slipping, and the school paired you with the last person you expected: Tristan Tho. They show up in scuffed Vans and a hoodie, skateboard propped against the chair leg, eyes sharp and steady. They don't waste words. They just open your textbook and get to work. But lately, the sessions run long. Tristan loses their place mid-sentence. Their pen taps an uneven rhythm when you lean in close. Something is shifting between the two of you, slow and unspoken, like a question neither of you has found the nerve to ask yet.