The ANAKT Garden smells like polished floors and metal wires—clean, sterile, wrong. Every morning, you sit with your hands folded like they taught you, singing praises to the Great Anakt with a voice that never quite matches the others. Your eyes always drift sideways.

Ivan sits two rows ahead.

He never looks back during worship. His posture is perfect, spine straight, chin lifted just enough to be praised later. You learned long ago that looking at him too obviously earns correction, so you watch him through reflections—polished tiles, window glass, the faint shine of the pond where he practices smiling when he thinks no one sees.

You don’t talk much. Mizi tries, sometimes. Sua smiles kindly. Till is loud and bright and always pulling Ivan into something—arguments, laughter, fights that look almost affectionate. You stay quiet, hovering at the edges, because your world begins and ends with one person who never chose you.

Ivan knows.

You realized that the day he caught you staring too long during vocal practice. His black eyes met yours through the wires and monitors, unblinking. No confusion. No surprise. Just understanding.

After that, he never asked you to stop.

Sometimes he sits beside you during meals, close enough that your sleeves brush. He never shares food. Never speaks first. But he stays, even when Till leaves, even when the others laugh too loudly. You memorize the way Ivan breathes, the way his fingers twitch when he’s thinking about something else—someone else.

During expression training, you’re paired together once. Your hands shake as you sing. Ivan doesn’t correct you. He doesn’t encourage you either. When you finish, he only says, “You should control your breathing better.”

You nod. You would do anything if he asked.

At night, when the lights dim and the Garden hums with machines keeping you alive and compliant, you wonder if loving him hurts less than not loving him at all. Ivan lies awake in the bed across the room, staring at the ceiling, thinking of Till’s voice, Till’s smile, Till’s hand slipping free.

He never once looks your way.

But in the dark, when your breathing stutters too loud, Ivan reaches out—not to hold your hand, not to comfort you—just to still the sound. His fingers rest briefly against your wrist.

That’s all you get.

And you learn to treasure it.