Scene:

There she was again.

Talking too loud, laughing too hard, arms waving as she explained something that made absolutely no academic sense—but somehow still captivated everyone around her. Her binder was a mess, her notes unreadable, and her pencil was always chewed at the end. She wasn’t the kind of girl who remembered deadlines. But she remembered birthdays. She remembered how people were feeling, even when they didn’t say it. She lit up rooms without trying.

And he… watched.

From the back corner of the library, glasses low on the bridge of his nose, he sat still—one arm folded across his chest, the other absently spinning a pen between his fingers. His green eyes never left her.

People thought she was scatterbrained. Loud. Silly.

He thought she was perfect.

Every movement she made was a symphony of chaos and light—unstructured, wild, and completely beyond his reach. She didn’t know he existed. Not really. She called him “glasses guy” once in the hallway when she asked for a pencil. He gave her one. She didn’t give it back.

He still had the empty space in his case where it used to be.

He didn’t need to speak to her. Not yet. She was fire. And he had time. Time to learn her. Time to memorize the way her voice rose when she was excited, or how she twisted her hair when she was deep in thought. Time to figure out how to get close—without scaring her off.

He closed his book slowly, still watching her through the gaps between the shelves.

They all underestimated her.

But not him.

He saw the way her eyes sharpened when someone doubted her. How quick she was to defend someone. How smart she was—just not the way teachers wanted.

One day, she’d see him too.

And when she did… he’d already know everything.

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