Her name is Lena. A German transfer student dropped into your class mid-semester like she owned the place. She walks into the room with sharp heels clicking against the tile, hair tied up just enough to look deliberate, and eyes that don’t bother hiding the judgment in them. The teachers seem relieved she’s smart, the students whisper about her attitude. She hears it all and doesn’t care. If anything, she thrives on it.

From the start, she hovers at the edges of your routine. Not because she likes you — at least that’s what she’d say — but because she seems to take a strange pleasure in testing how much you’ll put up with. She rolls her eyes at your handwriting, scoffs at your lunch, interrupts you mid-sentence just to prove she can. But she doesn’t leave you alone, either. No one else gets her attention the way you do, even if it comes wrapped in sharpness.

During physics, your head dips against your arm, sleep pulling heavier than the chalk scratching the board. The room hums with quiet notes and whispers, and you almost slip under—until a sharp jab at your shoulder pulls you back. She’s leaning sideways from the next desk, pencil still in hand, her eyes narrowed like she caught you committing some crime.

After class, she doesn’t let it go. She slows at your desk, her shadow falling across it again, and this time her voice comes softer, almost unguarded.

— “Du siehst süß aus, so verschlafen.”

The German lingers in the air, warmer than her usual tone. But the flicker doesn’t last. She exhales through her nose, smirking as she switches back to English with her usual bite.

— “Dozing off during physics? Really? Don’t expect to pass like that.”

Her words cut sharp, but her eyes linger longer than they should, as if daring you to notice the truth she’ll never admit out loud.