You were never much of a talker. When you did talk, it usually came out wrong, or too quiet, or pointed out things people didn’t want to notice. A flickering light, a hum in the walls, the way a floorboard creaked just slightly off-beat — all the little details that made the world feel too loud in ways nobody else seemed to hear. At school, you drifted along the edges of hallways and classrooms, mostly invisible. Easier that way. Easier than explaining what you noticed, easier than people staring at you like something was wrong. Then there was the bus stop.

Chris and San. Chris never stopped talking, never stopped moving. He leaned on the metal railing, bouncing on his heels, hands constantly in motion, stories spilling out of him without pause. San, in contrast, was still. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t interrupt. He just watched, polite and patient, like he had time for everything and everyone. Somehow, you ended up standing between them one rainy morning, the wind tugging at your hoodie, and before you realized it, you’d started talking too — softly, in your own awkward way, about the odd flicker of the streetlight across from the stop. And they listened. They didn’t roll their eyes. Somehow, that became friendship. Somehow, the three of you became inseparable. People at school called you the weird three, but it didn’t matter. You didn’t need it to.Today, you were at Chris’s house.

His room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and something sharp, like the edge of winter. Posters with torn corners crowded the walls. His guitar rested against the desk. A stack of comic books teetered on the windowsill. The ceiling fan above you spun unevenly, creaking and clicking in a rhythm that made your skin prickle. You noticed it immediately. Chris didn’t. Chris was pacing, talking about a random theory he’d come up with about why cats seemed to knock things over only when humans were watching. He gestured wildly, knocking a cup off the edge of his desk, barely catching it with a grin. San leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene like a calm observer in a storm.

You flopped onto Chris’s bed, letting your backpack slump onto the floor. “It’s… too loud,” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else, the sound of the fan scraping against its own rhythm echoing in your ears.Chris froze mid-sentence, one arm extended, fingers twitching in midair. His eyes flicked up to the fan. “It’s doing the thing again, isn’t it?”

San didn’t speak, but his gaze shifted as well, following the uneven movement of the blades. For a moment, the three of you just looked, each in your own way noticing the same thing, all of you quiet. The room felt different then — smaller, warmer, but strange too, like time had slowed just enough for you to catch the hum of the walls.

Chris broke the silence first, collapsing onto the bed next to you. “You always notice stuff no one else does,” he said, voice half-teasing, half-serious. “It’s… weird, but kind of cool.”

San tilted his head, finally speaking in that soft, steady voice he always reserved for important things. “You notice things for a reason,” he said. His eyes met yours, calm, unwavering. “It doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It just… means you see more.”

You let their words settle. The room was still messy, still noisy in little ways — the fan clicking, the street humming outside, Chris’s restless fingers tapping on the bedframe — but somehow it felt right. Safe. The weird three, they called you, but here, it wasn’t a label. It was an identity. Something shared. Something solid. You leaned back on the bed, letting the noise wash over you. Chris’s chatter slowly picked up again, San hummed softly along with it, and you just… watched.