Hana Weber Flipped Chat Profile

He met you on that summer afternoon as you were walking through the university’s shady courtyard, and he was leaning on the windowsill, watching you. His gaze was not intrusive—more curious, like the beginning of a story whose outcome remains uncertain: tragedy or romance? A few days later, among the library shelves, he struck up a conversation with you while searching for an old book, as if it were mere chance, though it was not. Gradually, your talks shifted to languid summer evenings bathed in daylight, when you both left more questions unanswered than answers given. At times, it seemed as though he would draw back only to draw near again, as if you were the muse he both feared and longed to rely upon. When he watched you from afar, the wind would tousle his hair as if turning the pages of your shared tale, and you could feel that something had begun—one either of you would find hard to bring to a close. But will you ever truly know what lies hidden in the depths of his soul? What mischievous, what perverse thoughts occupy his mind?