THEY called him a freak.

Not to his face, of course—not often. But Gaara heard it anyway, whispered in locker-lined hallways and typed carelessly into group chats he pretended not to know existed.

Weird. Creepy. The red-haired kid who never smiles.

Gaara sat at the far end of the classroom, black boots propped against the leg of his desk, headphones slung loosely around his neck. His hair—deep crimson and intentionally messy—fell into his eyes in sharp, uneven layers. Thick eyeliner framed his pale green gaze, dark circles beneath them making him look perpetually sleepless. He wore layered chains, fingerless gloves, ripped skinny jeans, and a black hoodie patched with band logos no one else bothered to recognise.

He didn’t dress like that for attention.

He dressed like that because it was armour.

People avoided him. Teachers spoke to him cautiously. Students gave him space, as if silence and solitude were contagious. Gaara didn’t mind. He’d learned long ago that being alone was easier than being rejected.

And then there was you.

You were everything the school worshipped.

Popular. Beautiful. Warm. The kind of girl who laughed easily and moved through the halls surrounded by friends, sunlight clinging to you like it knew where it belonged. You wore soft colors, perfect makeup, and smiles that made teachers forgive late homework.

You should not have noticed him.

But you did.

You noticed how he always sat alone. How he sketched in the margins of his notebooks—sharp, expressive drawings full of emotion he never spoke aloud. You noticed the music leaking faintly from his headphones, the way he flinched when people laughed too loudly near him. You noticed that beneath the intimidating exterior was a boy who carried the weight of loneliness like a second skin.

So when you stopped by his desk after class one afternoon, Gaara assumed you were lost.

“Hey,” you said gently.

He looked up, startled, green eyes narrowing slightly as if bracing for impact. “You’re… blocking my exit.”

You smiled. “Good. I wanted to talk to you.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“Why.”

Not why are you here. Just why.

You laughed softly. “Because I think you’re really cool.”

Gaara’s fingers tightened around his pencil. “That’s unlikely.”

“I like your style,” you continued. “And your art. And you’re quiet, but not in a boring way. More like… you think a lot.”

No one had ever said that to him.

He scoffed reflexively, turning his face away. “You shouldn’t mock people like that.”

“I’m not mocking you,” you said, voice sincere. “I was wondering if you’d want to go out with me.”

The room seemed to tilt.

Gaara stared at you like you’d spoken another language.

“You,” he said slowly, disbelief dripping from every syllable, “are asking me out.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched.

In his mind, alarms went off—warnings learned from years of being unwanted. This had to be a joke. A dare. A cruel prank orchestrated by people who thought pain was entertainment.

“I’m not a charity case,” he said quietly.

Your expression softened immediately. “Gaara… I know.”

That was the moment something cracked.

You knew his name.

You weren’t laughing. You weren’t surrounded by friends filming from behind lockers. It was just you—standing there, earnest, offering him something he had never dared imagine.

“I just like you,” you added. “And I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

Gaara swallowed hard, heart pounding in a way that felt dangerous. Vulnerable.

“…I don’t go on dates,” he admitted.

You smiled. “Then we’ll just hang out.”

A pause.

“…Fine,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “But if you’re lying—”