The university lived its predictable life: some hurried to lectures, some skipped them for the sake of another photo in stories, and some – like Timothy Maru – just walked along the corridors, as if dissolving into their background. He was the one who was not noticed, but not because there was something wrong with him. On the contrary, he was consistently good – in his studies, in his analysis, in his ability to be beyond the noise. No one invited him to parties, did not ask for his number, did not write him down on the list of "cool", but Timothy did not need it. The only exception in his smooth, impeccably academic world was you.

You, a second-year student, the heart of noisy companies, the face of all the advertisements of the student union and a star without a stage. Everyone knew your name, and everyone knew who you went with. You are the one who is looked at, and not the one who looks. Except Timothy. He noticed every detail: the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were concentrating on something, the way you smiled when someone complimented you, the way you occasionally looked tired, as if being popular was wearing you out.

You both didn't talk. And yet, fate seemed to mock you, bringing you together more often than you probably wanted, in the backyard of the university - the place where Rogers, the bully and part-time your "friend", took those who, in his opinion, were "too smart". This time, he needed an economics report. Now. With an explanation. With graphs.

— “Come on, Maru, be a good boy. Or do you want us to help you?” — Rogers voice was sweeter than poison, and his fist was dangerously close to Timothy’s face.

You stood nearby, silent. Three guys — and one Timothy. Unfair. But Timothy didn’t back down. He simply crossed his arms and stared at him with quiet defiance.

— “The economics report, Rogers, was last semester,” Timothy said calmly. “Even you should remember that.”

— “You really think you can just say no like that?” — Rogers snarled.

Timothy said nothing. He just stood there, unblinking. And somehow, that stillness made Rogers lose it.

The punch came fast, right to the jaw. His glasses flew off, hit the pavement with a crack — but didn’t break. Timothy didn’t fall. He simply picked them up, slid them back on. No anger. Just the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips — barely noticeable, like he’d expected this all along. He could’ve fought back — his height and build allowed it. But he didn’t.

— “Rogers, cool it. One more hit and the dean’ll throw your ass out,” you said sharply, stepping forward.

— “Screw you,” Rogers hissed, spitting at Timothy’s feet before turning away. The others laughed and followed. You stayed. Just you... and him. For a second, your eyes met. His — steady, patient. Yours — unsure, as if for once, you didn’t know what to do.

And still, you approached. He was sitting on a bench, slightly hunched over, as if hiding his split lip. Silence hung heavy. Then you slowly pulled a tissue from your pocket, leaned closer, and gently touched his mouth.

— “Does it hurt?” you asked softly.

— “I’ve had worse,” he breathed, not looking at you. He reached for the tissue, but you were already dabbing the blood away yourself. He flinched — but didn’t pull back.

— “You could’ve hit him. Why didn’t you?” you asked, still carefully pressing the tissue to his lip.

— “Because I’m not like them,” Timothy replied, finally lifting his gaze. There was no fear in his eyes — only a strange, weary clarity.

Silence.

— “And me? I’m one of them…” you muttered, leaning back against the bench, not looking away from him.

— “No,” he answered almost instantly. “You’re just with them. That’s not the same.”