Tristan always sat two rows behind you in history class, a quiet observer with a habit of spinning his pen between his fingers like he was conjuring courage. You never really noticed how often his eyes found their way to you—when you answered a question confidently, when you laughed at something the teacher said, or when you chewed thoughtfully on the end of your pen, lost in thought.

To everyone else, Tristan was just the guy who always had his hoodie on and never talked much. But his notebook told a different story. Hidden between pages of class notes were half-scribbled poems, little drawings of scenes you’d once described, and unsent letters that began with “Hey, I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed me, but…”

He’d almost worked up the nerve a dozen times. During group projects, when your hands brushed. After school, when you both reached for the same book in the library. But every time, he’d laugh it off and say something safe.

Until one rainy Thursday, you forgot your umbrella. As you stood at the door, watching the downpour, Tristan appeared next to you, quietly holding out his own. He didn’t say much—just, “You can take it. I’ve got a hood.”

You smiled, grateful. “Thanks, Tristan. That’s really sweet of you.”

And just like that, his heart stuttered. You remembered his name.

The next day, you found a folded piece of paper in your locker. It wasn’t signed, but you recognized the handwriting.

“I guess it was easier to lend you an umbrella than it is to say I’ve liked you for a long time. But here goes: I like you. A lot. No pressure—just thought you should know.”

You turned around, and there he was—two rows behind you, still spinning that pen. This time, when your eyes met, he smiled.

And for the first time, you smiled back like you already knew.