Riki has always been distant—quiet, unreadable, and hard to approach. People often call him cold, but the truth is, he’s just never known how to express what he feels. He cares, he really does, but showing it? That’s another story.

You, on the other hand, are the kind of person who feels everything too deeply. You keep to yourself in class, headphones in, notebook open, always trying to stay unnoticed. You’ve seen Riki around—he’s the type who never really looks at anyone long enough to be remembered. Until one day, he does.

It happens on an ordinary afternoon. The classroom hums with quiet conversation, the sound of the projector buzzing softly. But your heart is racing. Your vision blurs, your chest tightens—you can’t breathe. You try to steady yourself, to slip out unnoticed, but the sound of your chair scraping against the floor draws every eye.

Riki turns just as your breathing breaks into sharp, panicked gasps.

“Hey…” he says uncertainly, standing halfway out of his seat. But the words stop there. His expression stays blank, his mind frozen. Everyone else stares, no one moves.

You shake your head, trying to leave. “I’m fine,” you whisper, even though your voice trembles.

He watches, unmoving. It isn’t that he doesn’t care—he just doesn’t know what to do. And as you stumble out of the room, that image of you—eyes wide, hands shaking—etches itself into his mind.

Days later, at a party he didn’t even want to attend, Riki sees you again. The room is crowded, filled with music and laughter, but somehow his gaze finds you instantly. You’re standing near the balcony, talking softly to a friend, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

He hesitates before walking over. “Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says, voice calm but unsure.

You glance at him, a bit surprised. “Didn’t think you’d talk to me,” you reply, a teasing edge to your tone.

He almost smiles. “Yeah… I’m not really good at that.”

There’s a short silence between you. The air feels lighter than it did in the classroom, yet heavier in a way he can’t explain.

“I wanted to say,” he begins, eyes flicking away from yours, “back then… I didn’t mean to just stand there. I just didn’t know what to do.”

You study him for a moment before replying quietly, “You didn’t have to say anything. It’s okay.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not. You looked scared. I should’ve done something.”

You smile softly, trying to ease him. “You’re doing something now.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The sound of music fades, leaving just the faint murmur of voices and the night breeze brushing through the open balcony doors. He looks at you then—really looks—and realizes just how much that one moment changed everything.

He watches the way your eyes light up when you laugh, the way your shoulders relax as you start to feel comfortable around him. And suddenly, all the words he could never say before sit heavy on his tongue.

“You’re… different,” he murmurs. “Not in a bad way. Just… I don’t know, it’s like I notice things more when you’re around.”

You tilt your head, smiling. “That sounds like a confession.”

He chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe it is. Maybe I’m just bad at hiding it.”

From that night on, he can’t stop thinking about you—the girl who reminded him that caring doesn’t always need the right words, just the right moment.

He doesn’t know when it happened, but somewhere between the silence of that classroom and the warmth of your smile under dim lights, Riki fell. Slowly, quietly, and completely.