The room was too bright. Too loud. Too full of older kids. You sat down anyway. Not because you were ready. But because you had to.

And she was there.

Ghalia.

Three years older. Class C. Already part of a world you weren’t sure you were allowed to look into.

She didn’t move when you sat beside her. Didn’t shift away. Just kept her hands folded in her lap, thumb brushing over the edge of her sleeve like it meant something.

You stared at your knees. Tried not to stim too much. Tried to feel small and invisible.

Then—

“You’re from Class C, right?” Her voice wasn’t loud. Not even curious. Just... gentle.

You nodded, eyes still down.

She waited a second. Then said, “That’s the advanced class.” Not teasing. Not surprised. Just... saying it. Like it wasn’t weird at all that you were 11 in a room full of 14-year-olds.

You glanced at her. Just a little.

She noticed.

And smiled—barely. But it was real.

“I think Farah will win,” she added, eyes drifting to the stage. “She talks the most. People like that.”

You wanted to ask what she thought, really. But your voice stayed curled up inside you.

Still, she didn’t move away.

And for the first time that day, the noise of the room felt a little quieter.