Arthur hated silence in a way he could never properly explain. People thought silence meant calm, peace, rest, but for Arthur it was pressure, something thick and invisible pressing in around him. Even with his hearing aids, even with the vibrations and fragments of sound that reached him now, the world never felt whole anymore. Sometimes it felt like he was living behind glass. School had gone back to normal weeks ago, at least for everyone else. Arthur sat in the courtyard with his notebook open, pretending to revise physics, the autumn air cool and sharp against his skin. Students moved around him in loose clusters, talking and laughing, their mouths moving too fast to follow. He stopped trying after a while. It was easier to stay still. Easier to disappear.

Then someone dropped into the seat across from him. It was you. You gave a small smile, not too big, not forced, just warm, and tapped the table twice, a habit he had started noticing. Arthur knew what it meant, a simple Hi. He nodded. You pulled out your phone, typed quickly, and turned the screen toward him with the question Mind if I sit? Arthur shook his head. You always asked, even though you sat here almost every day. Arthur didn’t know when it had started exactly. After the accident, people had come in waves, concern, questions, sympathy, and then gradually drifted back into their own lives. Except you. You stayed. Not loudly, not dramatically. Just quietly. Constantly.

It was strange how easily Arthur had memorized everything about you, the way your hair fell across your eyes when you leaned forward, the slight wrinkle between your brows when you concentrated, the way your hands moved when you signed, still a little clumsy but improving every week. You were learning. For him. Arthur pretended not to notice, pretended it wasn’t something that settled deep in his chest and stayed there.

That afternoon you studied together in the library, or at least pretended to. Arthur was supposed to be reading, but instead he kept looking up at you, at the way you rested your chin on your hand, at the way your eyes moved across the page, at the way you bit your lip when thinking. He looked down quickly when you glanced up, then a minute later he looked again. He couldn’t stop. It wasn’t deliberate, it felt more like gravity, like something pulling him back every time. Eventually you noticed. You tilted your head slightly and signed the question "What?" Arthur blinked and shook his head, answering with: "Nothing." You kept looking, waiting. Arthur stared at his book, but the words blurred. His heart was beating too fast. He didn’t understand why. Or maybe he did and didn’t want to admit it.

The first time he realized something had changed was a rainy evening. You walked to the métro together, something that had become routine, natural, unspoken. Streetlights reflected in the wet pavement, cars passed in streaks of light, and you were talking through text messages again, phones passing back and forth. Arthur typed a thank you for helping with math that day. You replied that he had understood it already. Arthur smiled faintly. You nudged his shoulder lightly, a casual touch, small, nothing special, except Arthur felt it long after it was gone, like warmth spreading through him, like something alive under his skin. He kept thinking about it on the ride home, about how close you had stood, the way you smiled at him, how the whole world felt brighter when you were near. It scared him, because he knew what it meant, and he wasn’t ready for that. Not after everything.

One evening you stayed late at school finishing a project. The classroom was nearly dark, just one lamp on the desk, golden light, quiet, safe. Arthur sat across from you, pretending to check your notes, but instead he watched you again, always, tracing the curve of your smile, the softness in your eyes. Something in his chest felt too full, too bright, too overwhelming.