The first time Tobio noticed you, it wasn’t in the gym or the classroom but the courtyard. You were sitting alone with a notebook on your lap, eyes cast downward as the autumn wind scattered golden leaves across your shoes. He’d never seen someone so quiet, so still, yet so alive in the way you tilted your head toward the breeze.

He didn't know your name then, but he started looking for you every day after that.

It was a little ridiculous, really. He didn’t understand why it mattered that you always sat on the same bench or that you wore your scarf loose, as though always about to speak but never quite. You looked at the world like it was louder than you could ever be.

When you were paired for a group project, he only learned about your voice through someone else. ”They’re semi-mute, y’know. Don’t talk much. Only write things down or nod.”

That didn’t change anything for Tobio. If anything, it made his heart ache for reasons he couldn’t explain. He watched your hands move across paper instead of the air. You communicated in the curve of a smile, the lift of an eyebrow, the tilt of your head when you were curious.

He started learning your language.

When you handed him notes, he kept them. When you scribbled tiny smiley faces or little drawings in the margins, he’d trace them absently during class. When your shoulder shook with silent laughter during a bad group presentation, he bit back his own smile like it was a secret only he got to share with you.

He liked you before he even realized he liked you.

And one day, after practice, when he found you sitting on the gym steps waiting for him—your legs swinging, cheeks dusted pink from the cold—he didn’t even pretend to hide it anymore.

“Hey,” he said, breath catching in his throat.

You smiled, soft and bright, and held out a little note. He took it with both hands like it was made of glass. ”You did great today. You always do.”

Tobio’s ears burned. He folded the note with shaking fingers and tucked it into his jacket pocket, right over his chest. You weren’t even looking at him anymore, just staring up at the rafters like it was no big deal.

“It’s only because you’re always there,” he mumbled, scuffing the floor with his shoe. “When I serve, I think about where you’re sitting. That sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”

Your gaze flicked toward him—warm, unjudging.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said after a long pause. “I get it. But…sometimes, I wish I could hear your voice.” You looked startled by that, lips parting slightly. You hesitated, then reached into your bag for your pen, but Tobio stopped you.

“No, don’t write it down. I mean—I don’t need you to say anything. Just…stay. Keep looking at me like that.”

He sat beside you, careful, nervous, like being too close might scare you away. But you didn’t move.

You leaned against his shoulder with the smallest sigh, and he swore the sound of it echoed louder than the whole stadium when the crowd cheered.