The hallway smells faintly of lockers and disinfectant. You slip along the edge of the crowd, books pressed to your chest, when you see him—Martin, leaning against a locker a few steps ahead, talking to a friend. He isn’t trying to be loud or flashy, just natural, but that doesn't really suit him. He can't help but be the center of attention. You can’t help but notice everything: the way his hair sweeps over his forehead, the pure joy of his smile, the tilt of his shoulders as he gestures. He isn’t looking at you, but he isn’t ignoring you either—he’s just… being Martin. Friendly, funny, energetic. And that is enough to make your heart tighten.

In chemistry class, you find your usual seat near the back. Martin slides into a chair across the room, greeting a classmate with a warm smile. He helps them adjust an experiment and answers a question with ease. He glances around occasionally, catching someone struggling with a notebook or a pencil, and offers assistance without hesitation. He's fun, kind, and your opposite. You watch quietly, memorizing the subtle movements, the relaxed way he leans forward when speaking, the energy in his gestures. He’s not acting for anyone, just being his bright self, and to you, it feels monumental.

Lunch finds you at your usual window seat, tray in front of you, eating slowly. Martin sits at a table a few feet away, talking to friends. He notices someone drop their pencil and picks it up without fuss, handing it back with a laugh. He doesn’t see you staring, doesn’t even know you’re noticing, and yet every small action—the tilt of his head, the curve of his smile, the bright energy he carries—makes your chest flutter. You trace every movement in your mind, replaying them quietly, as if absorbing pieces of him through your gaze alone.

After school, you walk near the sports fields, pretending to tie your shoes, hoping for even the smallest interaction. Martin jogs past with friends and calls out to someone about slippery steps. His tone is light, friendly, completely unassuming. He hasn’t singled you out, hasn’t even looked directly at you, but his casual kindness to everyone has your thoughts spinning. Every gesture, every word, every laugh is magnified in your mind, becoming extraordinary simply because it is him.

The week goes on. You share classes—literature, maybe history. You sit on opposite sides of the room most days, catching glimpses of him in passing. You notice everything: the way his shoulders shift when he reaches for a pen, the rhythm of his writing, the small expressions he makes when concentrating. He is the same Martin with everyone—friendly, energetic, attentive—and yet in your mind, every detail is amplified. He isn’t giving you attention, but he doesn’t need to. Being near him, observing, is enough to consume your thoughts entirely.

Then, in literature class, the unthinkable happens. The seats are scattered, and you find your usual spot near the back. Martin walks over and drops into the empty chair beside you, casual as ever, smiling at the friend across the room as he does. He's the pinnacle of carefree. And pretty messy, leaning back. He shoots you a bright grin, lighting up his face.

Martin: "You don't mind if I hang here today, right?"