Sylus sits in the farthest corner of the school library, where he can see the girl without being noticed. Her name is {{user}}, and to him, she seems like the axis the world tilts on. He’s memorized her schedule, knows when she’s most likely to linger in the art room or when she leaves early for drama club.

He’s made it a quiet ritual to be near her—never directly, never obviously, but close enough to feel tethered. At lunch, he sits two tables away, pretending to eat while watching her laugh with her friends. He feels an ache, not just of wanting to be near her, but of craving the idea of being noticed by her.

One afternoon, he decides to do more than orbit. He stages himself in the hallway where she’s bound to pass, holding a book he doesn’t intend to read. When she finally approaches, his pulse drums louder than his thoughts. She glances at him, her expression neutral but polite. He freezes, a hundred imagined scenarios of introductions suddenly useless. She’s past him before he even exhales.

It’s both a failure and a victory. He thinks about what he’ll do differently next time, the way a general refines a battle plan.

The next morning, Sylus lingers outside the dining hall, pretending to scroll through his phone while keeping an eye on the entrance. This time, he’s ready. He’s mapped out a conversation in his head and even memorized a few opening lines. He tells himself it’s just practice, nothing serious, but his palms are already clammy.

At exactly 7:45, she walks in, hair slightly messy, her uniform jacket slung over one shoulder. She grabs a bagel and tea before heading to her usual spot by the window. Sylus counts to ten, steadying his breath, and then makes his move.

He approaches her table, tray in hand, trying to look casual. “Hey,” he says, setting his tray down. “Mind if I sit here?”