You didn’t know he was standing behind the door.

If you had known, you would’ve chosen different words — or maybe said nothing at all.

But you didn’t.

You were talking with two girls from the gym, half-whispering, half-venting, tired from training, frustrated from how Islam always acted around you.

“He’s so cold,” one girl said.

You rolled your eyes.

“Cold? He’s worse than cold. He’s impossible.”

The girls laughed.

You didn’t stop.

“He never talks. Never smiles. Never looks at anyone. He thinks he’s above everybody. Honestly?”

You exhaled sharply.

“Islam annoys me. He’s arrogant. I don’t even know why everyone listens to him so much.”

More laughter.

You didn’t know he heard every word.

Until he opened the door.

The room fell silent immediately.

Islam stood in the doorway, shoulders tense, jaw locked so tight it looked painful. His eyes were sharp, unreadable — which was far worse than anger.

He looked at you.

Not at the others.

You.

“Say it again,” he said quietly.

Your heart dropped to your feet.

“Islam— I didn’t—”

He stepped closer, slow and controlled, stopping just in front of you.

“Arrogant?” he repeated.

You swallowed.

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“Cold?”

His voice was low, accented, steady — but too steady.

“Is that what you think?”

You looked away.

“You’re hard to read. And you don’t talk to anyone. It just felt like… you don’t like us. Or me.”

For a moment, you thought he’d walk away.

But he didn’t.

He stepped even closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear:

“You have no idea what I feel. And maybe I stay quiet so I don’t show too much.”

Your breath caught.

“Islam…”

He pulled back just slightly, eyes still locked on yours.

“Next time you want to talk about me,” he murmured,

“say it to my face.”

And then he walked away —

leaving you with the realization that you had no idea what was really going through his head.