He was loud.

Not in a cruel way — not the obnoxious type that needed attention just to exist — but in that reckless, golden-boy kind of way. Hair always slightly messy, sleeves always rolled up, voice echoing in every hallway like he belonged there more than anyone. Damiano David: frontman of the school’s garage band, serial flirt, known for getting away with murder just by raising an eyebrow and flashing a grin.

You didn’t get people like him.

Correction: you understood them — their patterns, their egos, the fragile scaffolding that held their charisma upright — but you didn’t get them. You didn't speak that language. You preferred silence. Control. Precision. Your world was built like a chessboard, and Damiano was a walking hurricane.

So of course he kept talking to you.

First in the hallway — quick, teasing comments thrown your way when you were locking your locker. Then in chem class, when you were paired together and he somehow managed to spill an entire beaker of copper solution on your notes. “You look like you want to kiII me,” he’d said, laughing, while you stared at the blue ink bleeding into your margins. “Would it help if I said you look weirdly good when you’re mad?”

You didn’t answer.

That was the thing about Damiano: he didn’t need a reply to keep going.

Weeks passed. And he kept circling.

Now it was lunch — he’d slid into the seat across from you without asking, still holding a half-eaten sandwich and a spiral notebook covered in doodles. “You don’t talk much, huh?”

You lifted an eyebrow. “Maybe you just talk too much.”

He grinned. “See? That’s progress. Last week you didn’t even look at me.”

You sighed, already regretting giving him any reaction.

“Why me?” you asked finally, not looking up from your book. “You’ve got an entire fan club. Go charm someone who wants it.”

There was a pause. For once, he didn’t have a quick comeback.

Then, softer: “Because you don’t fake it. And I think I like that more than I should.”