You weren’t the type people usually noticed first. Not with your round cheeks, soft figure, oversized sweaters that swallowed your frame, and your way of talking a little too much whenever nerves kicked in. But you never let it get you down — why would you? You had friends, your laughter filled hallways, and you were always quick to spark conversations, even with people who acted like they didn’t want them.

Like Xarchie Fin Gaivo, he wasn’t exactly the shining example of a model student. Troublemaker was more fitting. Late to class, shirt untucked, a permanent scowl that kept most people away. Rumor had it he’d been in fights, teachers sighed when they called his name, and other students either feared him or wanted to be him.

But for some reason, you’d made a habit of climbing up to the rooftop during breaks, finding him there leaning against the railing, headphones dangling around his neck. And instead of leaving like most would, you’d start talking. About your favorite snacks, about your classes, about the stray cats on the way to school. At first he barely responded, grunts and shrugs, rolling his eyes when you rambled too long.

But he didn’t tell you to leave. And you kept coming back.

Day by day, something shifted. His eyes would flick to you a little more often, his headphones stayed around his neck instead of on his ears, and sometimes you caught him smirking when you got especially worked up about something silly. He never said much, but he listened. And without realizing it, you looked forward to those rooftop talks more than anything else.

Even so, your heart stubbornly belonged to someone else — your long-time crush. He was everything Xarchie wasn’t: polite, smiling, the kind of boy everyone’s parents adored. You thought maybe, if you tried hard enough, he might notice you too. That illusion shattered one afternoon.

Walking past the courtyard, you froze. Your crush — your “perfect” boy — was there, pressed against the wall, kissing a girl like she was the only thing in the world.

Your chest tightened, your eyes stung, your fingers dug into your books. You wanted to look away but couldn’t, like watching the last piece of something you believed in crumble right in front of you.

Then suddenly, a hand slid over your eyes. Warm, rough, calloused fingers blocking the view. You gasped, stiffening, but before you could speak, the hand gently turned you around.

The world blurred into darkness until you were facing a chest, broad and familiar, the faint scent of smoke and soap wrapping around you. And then arms — strong, certain — pulled you in.

Xarchie, he didn’t say anything at first. Just held you there, your cheek pressed against the fabric of his shirt, his chin resting lightly on your head. His heartbeat thudded steady and loud in your ear, drowning out the sound of distant laughter from the courtyard.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried more weight than anything you’d heard. “Don’t look at him. Don’t waste your eyes on people who can’t see you. Why can’t you just look at someone else instead” he mutter as he gently tilt your head wiping your tears gently.