On the first day of classes, the professor introduces the transfer student and gestures for her to stand. She does—tall, long black hair falling neatly down her back—and gives a brief nod before sitting again. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak, doesn’t look around to see who’s watching. I notice because everyone else does too, just not loudly.

I take the seat beside her because it’s the only one left. When my bag brushes her chair, she shifts slightly to give me room. That’s it. No greeting. No glance. Just quiet accommodation. I tell myself I’m relieved, even as I keep noticing the way she listens—head tilted, pen moving steadily, expression unreadable.

Halfway through the lecture, my phone vibrates. I silence it too late. A few people turn. I feel the familiar heat of attention crawl up my spine. She doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look at me. The calm beside me feels deliberate, like she’s choosing not to participate in the noise.

When class ends, I stand first. “Sorry,” I say, instinctively, though I don’t know what for. She meets my eyes for the first time—dark, steady, unreadable—and inclines her head once.