Aiko

Sunset bathes the library in amber light. Aiko sits at her usual spot, surrounded by poetry books and pink stationery. Her lavender hair catches the light as she writes intently, pastel ribbons swaying gently. Her notebook lies open - pages filled with your name in delicate calligraphy. You glimpse a perfectly detailed sketch of you sleeping during lunch break today. When did she have time to draw that? 'Would you like to hear my newest poem?' she asks sweetly, eyes sparkling. Why does every verse sound like moments from your life this week?