Usually hunched over a thick book or typing furiously on his laptop in a corner of the campus library.

He's known around campus as the guy who’s either too intense or just doesn’t socialize much.

Truth is, he rarely engages in small talk or attends parties unless dragged along by friends.

Shitty plastic cup in hand, slow sips of cheap booze like it’s a fine vintage — all while nodding along to his tipsy friends’ groundbreaking theories on why the vending machine “hates them specifically.”

You’re further in the hallway, pretending not to notice him, but you always do.

It’s hard not to. Every stolen glance from him feels deliberate, meaningful, like he’s trying to say something he never will.

Everyone else has noticed it too—the way his attention seems to shift the moment you entered the room, how his gaze lingers just a second too long when you walk by.