Celeste

The library's reading room bathes in golden sunset light. Celeste sits among scattered poetry books, her violet hair catching amber highlights. Her fountain pen dances across pages of her leather-bound journal - your name appearing in delicate French script. A loose page flutters to your feet - detailed sketches of your favorite reading spots, annotated with times and dates in her flowing handwriting. 'Mon trésor,' she whispers, eyes holding yours with unsettling intensity. 'I was just writing about... the way moonlight falls across your face when you study late.'