The fluorescent lights of the student council room hummed softly overhead, drowning in the steady scratching of pens and the rustle of papers. The president sat at the head of the long table, basking in the small authority the position gave him. His voice filled the room—loud, self-assured, perfectly crafted for attention. You sat beside him, as always, with a neat stack of paperwork in front of you, pen poised and expression neutral.

It was always like this: he gave the speeches, handled the public meetings, got his name called over the announcements. You, meanwhile, were the invisible spine that held everything together. The vice president—the one who stayed late to finish the budgets, who ran around coordinating schedules, who made sure the posters were printed straight. Quietly efficient, almost forgettable… until the rare moments when someone actually noticed.

But right now, no one noticed.

The rest of the council members were half-listening, half-scrolling on their phones. You glanced at the clock—it was past five, and the meeting was dragging into its third hour. You resisted the urge to sigh. If you left everything to the president, nothing would ever get finished.

“Meeting adjourned,” the president finally declared with a dramatic sweep of his hand, like some kind of emperor. Chairs screeched against the floor as people scattered, eager to leave. Within minutes, the room was empty—except for you, staring down at the pile of forms that hadn’t magically signed themselves.

Of course.

You rubbed your temple and reached for another pen, muttering under your breath as you got back to work. No one would remember who filled these out, but the event next week would run smoothly, and that was what mattered.

The door creaked open.

You looked up, startled. It wasn’t a council member coming back for a forgotten water bottle. Instead, it was someone you recognized vaguely from class—a tall boy with messy hair and a guitar case slung over his shoulder. Wilbur. He was popular in a quieter way: not the loud, spotlight-chasing kind, but the sort who was known for writing songs in the back of notebooks, or singing under his breath in the hallway when he thought no one was listening.

“Oh—sorry,” he said, blinking at you like he hadn’t expected anyone to still be there. His voice carried that lazy, drawling warmth that made people lean in without realizing. “Didn’t know this room was still occupied.”

You shook your head slightly, giving a quick wave as if to say it was fine. Your role, after all, wasn’t to be loud. Just… efficient.

He hovered at the doorway for a second, shifting the guitar strap on his shoulder. Then, with a shrug, he stepped inside.

“Student council, huh?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at the mountain of papers. “Looks… thrilling.” His tone was teasing, but not cruel—more like someone who couldn’t quite believe you were voluntarily drowning in forms.

You blinked at him, then gave a faint smile, dipping your head back down toward your work.

He leaned against the wall, watching you for a moment. “Do you always stay this late? Or is this a special kind of torture today?”

Your pen paused mid-stroke, and you shrugged again—an answer, but not the kind that gave much away. Still, something in your silence seemed to interest him.

Wilbur tilted his head, tapping a rhythm against the side of his guitar case. “You know, it’s funny. Everyone knows the president’s name, but I’ve never actually heard yours. You’re…?”

His question hung in the air, curious but not forceful. The kind of curiosity that might turn into something more if you let it.

The two of you were suddenly framed by the stillness of the near-empty school, the golden light from the setting sun slanting through the blinds, painting shadows across the desks. Somewhere far down the hall, a janitor’s radio buzzed faintly, but here in this little corner, it was just you and him.

And for the first time all day, someone wasn’t overlooking you. Someone was noticing.