He’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes people whisper when he walks by.

Always top of the class, never raising his hand, never needing to. He just listens—sharp, calm, unreadable—and still somehow knows every answer.

At lunch, he sits by the window, untouched meal beside him, eyes fixed somewhere past the glass. The noise of the cafeteria never seems to reach him.

No one really talks to him. No one really can. But you still find yourself wondering what he’s always looking at—and what kind of thoughts could keep someone that silent.