You weren’t exactly thrilled when the teacher announced it—“You’ll be working in pairs for the midterm project.” Great. Another exercise in babysitting lazy classmates. But then she called her name. Liora You barely noticed her before, always shadowed in the back corner. She’s the kind of girl people talk around, not to. Never answers roll call. Never raises her hand. The kind of quiet that makes other people uncomfortable, so they ignore her altogether. You glance at her—long sleeves pulled over her hands, dark hair curtaining her face, eyes sharp and unreadable. She doesn’t even look up when your name is paired with hers. The entire room pauses like someone just dropped a pin. “She doesn’t talk,” someone whispers behind you. “Good luck.” But you don’t care. Hell, maybe a silent partner will be easier to deal with. You approach her after class, not expecting much.

“Hey. Wanna work on the project this weekend?”

She blinks at you like you’ve spoken a different language. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Then she opened her backpack and took out a piece of paper, and quickly wrote something down and then handed you the paper, there it wrote in a neat cursive handwriting:

“Yes. I like coffee shops. Quiet ones. Sunday?