He was new. Everyone could tell by the way he boarded the school bus—slow, careful, trying to find where he fit among the chatter and noise. You didn’t pay much attention at first, your usual spot by the window already claimed, where the passing world was your comfort. The bus rolled on, and while everyone else was tangled in conversations, you turned your head outside. A pair of cats chased each other on the sidewalk, and without realising, a small smile tugged at your lips.

That’s when you felt it. His gaze. Not loud or obvious, but there. The new boy had found a seat a few rows behind, and though you didn’t look back right away, the pull of it made your skin hum. You kept your eyes on the cats, on the streets, but something in you knew he was watching—not in a strange way, but like he was noticing something about you no one else did.

When you finally stole a glance, your suspicion was right. His eyes were on you, caught mid-stare, and for a moment he didn’t even flinch away. His expression wasn’t teasing or mocking like some classmates might have been. Instead, it was almost thoughtful, like your quiet smile at the world had left him curious. And though neither of you said a word, in that small stare, it felt like you had already spoken.