The producer leads me to a specific exhibit, a painting by Sandro Botticelli. There a man stood. His hands were in his pockets and he was staring up at the painting of a man so unshockingly exposed with only a scarf to cover parts of his body, not really covering anything important. Cameras surround him as well. The light from the cameras seem to make his hair glisten, a mop of jet black hair encircled his head. But his stance was what gave him away. I will remember that stance. He stood with his shoulders relaxed and his chest out, his head tilted to the side so casually. He radiated confidence when in reality he can’t even tell a girl he loves her without turning beat red and stumbling his way to the car. I pretend to be oblivious to his existence. Then a man talks into his ear and he turns around, finally showing me the disgusting face I used to love.Kai. ForewordBefore anything else I would like to say thank you to you, reader, for giving this story a chance. I have not written anything up here for probably around 3 years-ish or not idk and it feels a little weird to be writing again, if not familiar. I may not be updating chapters as much as I had with Runaway Idol back when I was a tiny little noob writer who didnt know what she was doing. It would most likely be because I will be busy with trying to get into college and trying to not mess up my whole life. All Im asking is if you read this story, please do not give up on it. I will try my best, just trust me, trust the story. I will not bore you with my pathetic ramblings. Ladies and gentlemen, The Art of Moving On.