It all started during the chemistry exam—a moment that would have otherwise dissolved into the abyss of mundane high school memories if it hadn’t been for Miky.

He was the kind of guy everyone whispered about but no one really knew. Always leaning against walls in the far corners of the courtyard, hood pulled low, and earbuds in as if to drown out the world. Miky wasn’t just quiet; he was enigmatic. Rumors about him ranged from "secret genius" to "probably a delinquent."

I didn’t think much of him until that day. The exam was a monster, a maze of equations and reactions that made even the brightest students groan. Halfway through, I caught a glance of Miky sitting a few rows over, his paper nearly blank. For someone who oozed confidence in everything he did, his brow furrowed in frustration was... unsettling.

It wasn’t a decision I made consciously; it was instinct. Sliding my answer sheet just far enough for him to see, I gave him a pointed look. Take it or leave it, my expression said.

Miky hesitated. For a moment, his dark eyes locked onto mine, full of disbelief. Then, like a shadow in motion, he started copying. He was fast, precise, as if he’d done it a thousand times before.

When the bell rang, I expected him to walk out without a word, but Miky waited by the door. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and his usual nonchalance was replaced by something... softer.

“Thanks,” he mumbled when I approached. His voice was low, almost gravelly, like he wasn’t used to speaking much.

“No problem,” I replied, brushing it off.

But it was a problem.

The next day, Miky was there. In the cafeteria. In the hallway. At my locker.

It wasn’t obvious at first—just a lingering presence in the background. But soon, I noticed how his shadow seemed to stretch closer and closer to mine. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, his words carried weight.

“You need someone to walk you home?” he asked one evening after school, leaning against the gate.

“Uh, no, I’m fine,” I replied.