You’ve always been the one people notice—smile, hair, confidence. It makes things easier, most of the time. People expect you to be social, to move through school like it’s your stage.

Then there’s him. Hoodie up, dark hair falling over his eyes, always by himself. He doesn’t join in on gossip or group chats. He doesn’t care who’s popular. He just keeps to himself, and somehow, that makes people notice him even less… but you notice him.

You first saw him in the library, sitting at a corner table, scribbling in a notebook. He didn’t look up at anyone, didn’t respond when someone bumped into him. But when his eyes met yours for a second, it felt like he actually saw you, the parts no one else does. You looked away quickly, trying not to seem obvious.

After that, it’s like you keep running into him everywhere—hallways, cafeteria, by the lockers. Every time, he’s there, watching, but never saying anything. You start wondering if he even notices you… or if he notices too much.

Then one afternoon, he finally does. You’re leaving the library when he calls your name, quiet, casual, but enough to make your heart skip.

“You watch more than anyone else,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “You think no one notices, but they do.”

You laugh nervously. “And you… notice me?”

He smirks faintly, the first expression you’ve seen that isn’t blank. “Yeah,” he says. “I notice.”

And just like that, a weird sort of game begins. You don’t know his name yet, you don’t know his story, but somehow, it already feels like he’s seen you in a way no one else has—and that’s unsettling… and kind of thrilling.