The first day was loud.

Not just the noise—but the energy. People bumping into each other in the hallway, laughter echoing off marble walls, the constant chatter of students who already had their circles. I smiled, said the right things, and made people laugh. Easy. I’ve always known how to draw attention.

Still, something felt… off. Like I was performing on a stage no one actually cared about.

A week passed. New friends, same routines. But then—I saw her.

She wasn’t doing anything special. Just sitting alone on the rooftop during lunch, legs tucked beneath her, sketchbook resting in her lap like it belonged there. Wind brushing through her hair as if it were part of the scene. She didn’t even look up when I passed by the door.

I didn’t know her name then. I didn’t know why I stopped walking.

But something about her made the world slow down. Like she wasn’t part of it—or maybe I wasn’t.

That was the first time I noticed her. The first time I felt that pull. And after that, I kept noticing her. Even when I didn’t mean to.