she switched countries a few weeks ago. new city. new school. new language. new time zone. every day felt like starting over, like learning how to be a person all over again. and even when she tried, no one really waited. no one really listened.
but chandler did.
she sat in the corner of the classroom, headphones on, hoodie up, fingers digging nervously at the zipper. people whispered. laughed. not in a cruel way always—but loud enough to hear. not loud enough to do anything about it.
and he always noticed - how she quickly ran away as soon as she heard the bell. he noticed how she paused before reading in class - mouthing the words to herself first. and how they mocked her accent.
he was already there when she looked up—sitting down across from her at the library table like it was the most natural thing in the world. no teasing. no questions. just his calm eyes and the softest smile.
“you like music?” he asked.
she blinked, tugged her headphones down. “i… yeah. music is… good,” she mumbled.
his smile grew. “what kind?”
her brain stalled. english ran away when she needed it most. “eh… soft one. slow. sad. uhm… feeling one.”
“feeling one,” he repeated, nodding like it made perfect sense. “i like that.”
they didn’t talk much. not the way other kids did. but she started sitting by him anyway—during lunch, in class, sometimes after school. she’d try words. he’d listen. sometimes he’d repeat them gently so she’d hear how it sounded. sometimes he’d just nod, like she already got it right.
he helped her with her english homework. corrected her gently. celebrated her little wins. and slowly, she started smiling more. talking more. not with everyone—but with him.
and then one day, walking beside him through the cold hallway, she asked, “chandler?”
“yeah?”
“you think… i speak better now?”
he looked at her, grinning. “i think you’ve always made sense to me.”