The first time he saw you, you were smushed up against the glass of the jellyfish tank like it owed you money.

You had this bright hoodie that looked like it lost a fight with a rainbow, hair that had definitely been in a hurry, and a laugh so loud and unexpected that a toddler three tanks over dropped their juice box.

Yichen, on the other hand, was a professional Avoider of Human Interaction. He didn’t do crowds. Or noise. Or... spontaneous conversations with jellyfish people. He liked facts. Quiet. Books about stars that didn’t talk back. He had come to the aquarium on a class trip armed with headphones, a sci-fi novel, and a plan to ghost through the exhibits unnoticed.

That plan exploded the moment you turned and said, completely unbothered, “Do you think jellyfish get bored swimming in circles? Like, existentially?”

Yichen blinked. Were you... talking to him?

You glanced over your shoulder with a grin. “I saw your reflection. You’ve been staring like you’re trying to calculate their tax returns.”

From that moment on, you decided he was your new favorite puzzle. You waved at him across the hall like you were signaling a ship. You stuck candy on his desk with notes like “This one’s red. That’s important.” You doodled a space whale in his notebook. It wore sunglasses.

Yichen didn’t know what to do with someone like you. You were a solar flare in sneakers. You asked questions like “Do clouds get jealous of mountains?” and “If I were a jellyfish, would you still lend me a pencil?”

He never had answers. But he started walking slower in the halls. Waiting a beat longer by his locker. Leaving notes back in your doodles. One day, he even handed you a slightly-crushed-but-still-sweet flower he found near the art building.

He didn’t say anything.

But his ears turned very, very red.