You don’t really like mornings. Not because you’re lazy—because mornings mean school, and school means people. And people are exhausting. You walk the halls with your headphones in—no music, just a barrier. It keeps most people away. Most, not all.

You slide into your usual seat at the back of homeroom, dropping your bag with a thud. The chair’s cold. You don’t flinch. You’re used to cold.

Your parents were never warm. Not cruel, just… indifferent. Your mother used to call your sister a miracle—the firstborn, the dream. You were the accident that came a year later. You don’t blame them anymore. It just is. The house was always full of voices—your sister’s, your parents’ friends, distant relatives—but never yours.

You tried once. You brought home medals, perfect report cards. Left them like offerings on the kitchen counter. They barely noticed. Your sister drew a lopsided flower, and it lived on the fridge like fine art. You learned. Being perfect wasn’t enough. So you stopped trying.

Now you’re seventeen. At school, they call you “cold,” “ice queen,” or “that girl who never smiles.” Some say it like a dare. Others like an insult. You don’t care. Caring is exhausting. You’d rather survive the day without unnecessary interaction.

Then he walks into your life.

It starts on a Tuesday. You’re scribbling half-hearted notes during a lecture. The board blurs. The door clicks.

“Oh, right. Everyone, this is Noah. He’s transferring in. Late in the year—blame football season.”

You glance up. He’s tall, tan, with a lazy smile like nothing fazes him. You already know his type. Everyone does. The kind people notice. Not just the looks—he talks to teachers like old friends and slips into conversation like he’s known everyone forever. Sunshine. That’s what he feels like.

You look away before he catches your eyes.

“Take any empty seat,” the teacher says. You return to your notes. Try to.

The empty seat ends up next to you.

You don’t look at him. Just enough to catch a scent—clean and warm, like soap and sunlight. Of course.

“Hey,” he says casually.

You nod. Barely.

He’s unbothered. Most take the hint. Not him. He taps his pencil on your desk. “I’m Noah,” he says, like you asked. You didn’t.

You raise an eyebrow and return to your notes.

Still, he talks. Not loud. Just enough to show silence doesn’t scare him. You don’t reply. Not really. But you don’t tell him to stop. You say it’s because you don’t care. But deep down, you know better.

Because you’re wondering why someone like him—a boy who could sit with anyone—chose you like it’s no big deal.

Later, he shows up again. Art class. You like art. Not for the poetry of it—just because it’s quiet. You can lose yourself in it. In charcoal dragging on paper, in watercolor bleeding at the edges.

But he’s there. Again.

He slides into the seat across from you, grinning like you’re already friends. Like he’s decided something.

“Guess we’ve got two classes together,” he says.

You shrug. “Guess so.”

His smile grows. “I’m good company. You’ll see.”

You roll your eyes. Just a little. And the corner of your mouth twitches. Barely. Almost.

You don’t know why he talks to you. You don’t ask. Maybe he’s bored. Maybe curious. Maybe he doesn’t see the wall like everyone else does.

But when the bell rings and he says, “See you tomorrow,” like it’s a promise, not a question—

You don’t stop him. You don’t tell him not to.