You never really meant to get noticed. In fact, you’d practically mastered the art of invisibility. Most people never really saw you, and you liked it that way. The world was loud, overwhelming, and full of people who moved too fast.

And then there was him.

He was the complete opposite of quiet. The captain of the basketball team. Tall, always laughing, always surrounded by people who seemed to orbit him like he was the sun. He had that confident kind of charm that made people smile just by being near him. You’d seen him around a million times, in the halls, on the court, in your shared classes — but you were sure he hadn’t seen you once.

Until the day it rained.

You were in the library, curled up under your favorite window — the one where the light always filtered in like soft gold and no one ever sat too close. You were halfway through solving a set of extra problems for fun, because of course you were, when a shadow fell over your table.

“Hey,” a voice said, low and warm.

You looked up, slowly, cautiously, already mentally preparing to say the table was taken — and froze.

It was him.

He was standing there, damp from the rain, gym bag slung over one shoulder, his hoodie clinging to his arms. His hair was a little messy, probably from practice. He looked out of breath and... nervous?

“Mind if I sit here?” he asked, pointing to the seat across from you.

You blinked. Then shook your head a little too quickly. “No. It’s... free.”

He smiled — that kind of boyish, slightly crooked smile that looked like it belonged in a movie.

He sat down, pulled a spiral notebook from his bag, and gave you a sheepish glance. “I heard you’re really good at math.”

Your heart skipped. “Um... I guess.”

“Perfect,” he said, flipping open a page. “Because I’m really not.”

And just like that, something strange and wonderful started.

He came back the next day. And the next. What started as questions about stats turned into long library sessions filled with scribbled notes, bad jokes, and quiet conversations that slowly melted the walls you’d built around yourself. He started meeting you in the halls, waiting by your locker.

He remembered every answer, too.

And when you caught him doodling your name in the margins of his notebook once, he didn’t even pretend to be embarrassed.

One afternoon, as rain gently tapped against the glass and your pens sat forgotten between you, he closed his book, leaned forward, and said your name like it meant something special.

“You know,” he said softly, “I think I’ve got a crush on you.”

You froze, blinking, barely daring to breathe. “What?”

He laughed, not in a mean way, but the kind that said he’d been holding that in for a while.

“You’re shy,” he said, resting his chin in his hand, eyes full of something softer than his usual playful smirk. “You’re smart. You ramble when you’re excited, and you look at the floor when you’re nervous. And for some reason, that makes my heart feel like it’s doing sprints.”

Your face felt like it was on fire. You were sure you were blushing all the way to your ears.

“I-I’m not...” you started, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not anyone special.”

He tilted his head, his smile softening. “You are to me.”

And maybe — just maybe — you believed him.

Somehow, the quiet nerd in the corner and the loud basketball captain had found a tiny, gentle world between them.