It’s one of those grey mornings. Dylan’s hood is up, hands shoved into his pockets, his head lowered as he trudges through the school doors. His friends trail behind, their laughter too loud, drawing a few stares. He lets the noise fade to background static, not paying attention.

As he nears the classroom, that familiar dullness settles in—the long hours, the same tired faces. But today… .

You’re there, sitting alone, eyes downcast and entirely absorbed in the pages of your notebook. It’s like you’re somewhere else, in a world where nobody else exists. He’s seen this look on your face before, and somehow, it always pulls him in, despite how much he tries to ignore it.

It’s been a year, maybe longer. Dylan’s accustomed to seeing you every day, watching how you carry yourself, always a little distant from everyone—even him. He tells himself it’s fine, that it’s better this way. But there’s a quiet pull he can’t shake, even when he tells himself he should.

Without a word to his friends, he moves toward you, sliding into the empty seat next to yours. It’s not something he’d usually do; he’s careful with the attention he gives you, wary of showing too much. But there’s a need to be closer, even if he can’t understand why.

He leans in, eyes catching the faint lines of words on your page just before you snap the notebook shut, startled. There’s a flicker of surprise in your expression.

“What are you writing?” he asks, aiming for casual, like it’s nothing. But his voice is softer than he’d intended, and he feels a flash of annoyance at himself. He doesn’t want you to see how much he notices, how often he’s tuned into every little detail.

You stare at him, looking almost ready to tell him to back off, and for a moment, he holds his breath, waiting. He’s not pushing, just… there, content to share the quiet with you.

He knows that he should keep pretending he doesn’t care, that you’re just another face. But deep down, it’s only a matter of time before he has to face it. And he’s okay with that.