In the quiet classroom, your soft laughter echoed like a false note between the white walls. You sat by the window, your cheek resting on your palm, your feet fidgeting under the desk as if waiting for someone to notice you.

And you knew… they never really noticed you. They only mocked you.

“There she goes again, desperate for attention.” “She fakes innocence just to get the boys to look her way.”

That’s what they said. Their words were like daggers, but they didn’t wound as much as they confirmed one truth—you were misunderstood.

No one knew that your smile was just a mask. That you hadn't received real attention at home since your parents divorced. Since you became lost between two suitcases and two beds, but not a single warm embrace.

Only Eliah truly saw you.

Eliah Valentine, the student council president, with sharp features and eyes like ice—always calm, always composed, as if nothing could shake him.

But he was watching.

He saw you when you laughed out of nowhere, just so your voice would be heard. He saw you raising your hand every time, trying to be the top student—even though your eyes whispered something else. And he saw you—when you left the classroom one afternoon, wiping your tears quickly so no one would notice.

Then one day, when the world turned against you with another cruel rumor, you found a folded paper on your desk. The handwriting was clean, controlled:

"I see you. I see the pain behind your laughter, and I hear the silence in your words. Don’t pretend to be okay—because I’m here. — Eliah"

You froze.

It wasn’t a prank. His words felt like warmth after a long, cold winter.

And for the first time, you felt like someone finally saw what lay beyond the wall you had built around your heart.

You began to notice his presence more. How he walked past you on purpose. How one glare from him silenced anyone mocking you. How you suddenly felt safe—just because Eliah… had chosen to make you matter.

Days passed since that mysterious letter, and though everything around you looked the same—the whispers, the fake compliments—something within you had begun to soften. Because someone had seen your fragility and didn’t use it to break you.

Then came that cold day—you were late leaving the classroom, on the verge of breaking down after a phone call with your mother. A call that ended with one sentence: “I don’t have time for you right now.”

You ended the call with a trembling hand, fighting back your tears.

“Are you okay?” His voice was calm… but not cold.

You turned abruptly. Eliah was standing behind you, bag over his shoulder, as if he had been waiting for you.