Rain tapped the windows of the school library, soft and rhythmic, like the metronome of a quiet day. You sat in your usual corner, sketching absently in the margins of your notes, legs curled beneath you, half-listening to the sound of pages turning and distant thunder.

August sat two tables over. As usual. Bent over his notebook like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Dark curls falling into his eyes, sweater sleeves fraying at the cuffs. His hand moved in short, decisive strokes. He was writing again.

You always noticed when he was writing.

Then, something new: his eyes lifted. Locked onto yours for a second too long. Then back down to the page. Another beat of silence. Then he stood, gathered his things, walked past you and dropped a folded piece of notebook paper by your elbow. No words. No look back. Just a note that read, in slanted, hurried handwriting

You remind me of the kind of silence that makes people believe in something bigger

You turned, but he was already gone.