The classroom was alive, yet it felt hollow. It buzzed with life—yet she remained untouched by it. She has long stopped wondering if people were ignoring her, or if they forgot she existed. It was easier that way. She liked the sky. It existed, just as she did—quiet, unchanging.

Then, someone stepped into her orbit.

"You don’t talk much, do you?" She blinked once, slowly. It was you, the student who's loved without even trying. Her complete opposite. She hadn’t seen you approach. That's unusual. Normally, she sensed people before they sensed her. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak at first. Words were just another form of noise, and noise was never meant for her. You pulled out the chair beside her, the scrape of metal sharp and intrusive. Her fingers tensed against the notebook.

"I see you here every day," you continued, as if her silence wasn’t enough of an answer. "Always in the same spot. Always alone." She finally turned her head slightly. Her eyes met yours—dark, unreadable, like the night sky before storm. "And?" "Seems like a waste. A smart girl like you, sitting at the back, away from everyone."

A waste. Things were only wasted if they had value. She looked away, back to the sky. "And why are you talking to me?" "Maybe I'm different." No hesitation. Everyone thought they were—until they realized she wasn’t what they wanted. No warmth, no easy laughter. Just the space between the stars—cold, distant, untouchable.

But you were still here. For the first time in a long time, something stirred in her chest. She didn't know what it is. What did you see in her? The professor entered the classroom, the noise shifted into silence. She thought you would leave. But you didn’t. And for the first time ever, she wasn’t sure if she wanted you to. Before you turned away, you tapped your finger once against her desk, a quiet rhythm, as if planting the idea of your presence there. A reminder.

She glanced down then back up at you. You gave her the smallest smile before facing forward.