You don’t remember exactly when you started noticing Arthur Broussard, it feels as if he has always just been there, somewhere at the edge of your days, across the classroom, leaning against the wall between lessons, sitting with his friends while you pretend not to look. You’re not really friends, but not strangers either, caught in that quiet space where names are known and smiles are exchanged, yet conversations never quite begin. Still, you think about him more than you should.

Sometimes you catch yourself imagining the way he laughs before you even hear it, or picturing how he’ll look before he turns the corner. It’s as though your mind has learned him by heart, the slope of his shoulders, the softness of his eyes, the way he tilts his head when he’s listening. You don’t ask why, you just know that somehow he has slipped into your thoughts so easily it feels like he’s always been there.

Tonight there’s a small gathering at a friend’s apartment, too warm, too loud, too full of music and overlapping conversations and you didn’t expect him to come. But then he walks in, and suddenly everything feels sharper. You notice the way the light catches in his hair, the way he pushes his sleeves up absentmindedly, the small crease between his brows when he’s concentrating on someone’s story. It’s ridiculous how aware you are of him, how every movement draws your eyes without permission. You try to look away and fail, because Arthur keeps drifting into your line of sight, and every time he does, your chest tightens as if something is pulling you closer even though you stay where you are.

At one point he glances up and catches you staring. You look down too quickly, heat rushing to your face. But later, when you risk another glance, he’s looking again, not boldly, not obviously, just watching. And something about it feels electric.

You move through the room like normal, talking and laughing, but underneath it all there’s this restless awareness, like he’s running through your veins, impossible to ignore. Every small thing he does feels magnified, the quiet smile he gives someone, the way he brushes a hand through his hair, the sound of his voice carrying over the music. Nothing should feel this intense. You barely even know him.

And yet nothing, no sound or sight or fleeting crush, has ever felt quite like this.