You always knew where you stood in the high school hierarchy—somewhere near the bottom, tucked between the library shelves and the back corner of classrooms. You weren’t disliked, exactly. You were invisible. And honestly, invisibility had its perks. No drama. No expectations. Just you, your grades, and the safety of being overlooked.

But then there was him.

Bang Chan. His name floated through every hallway, every whispered conversation, like a spell. He wasn’t just popular—he was magnetic. Captain of the basketball team, front-row smile in the yearbook, the kind of guy who somehow knew everyone’s name. He was the reason people actually looked forward to pep rallies.

And he’d never once looked your way.

Until that day in the library.

You were sitting at your usual spot, headphones on, nose buried in a thick fantasy novel, when a shadow fell across your page. You looked up—and nearly forgot how to breathe.

“Hey,” he said, smiling like this was normal, like Bang Chan standing at your table wasn’t the most bizarre thing to ever happen. “Mind if I sit?”

You blinked. “Um… aren’t there a hundred other tables?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged, sliding into the chair across from you anyway, “but none of them have you at them.”

You almost laughed, because it had to be a joke. The most popular guy in school didn’t choose to sit with the girl who hadn’t spoken to anyone outside of class in weeks. But he wasn’t smirking, wasn’t looking around for his friends. He was watching you like you mattered.

That was the first time.

The second time was in math, when he asked if you could explain something he clearly already knew. The third was in the cafeteria, when he left his entire group of friends to sit across from you again, tray in hand, daring the whole room to question him.

By the fifth time, it wasn’t surprising anymore. But it was terrifying.

Because the more he showed up, the more people started to notice. The stares. The whispers. The pointed glares from girls who thought you didn’t belong anywhere near him. You told yourself not to get used to it—that he’d get bored, that this was temporary—but then he’d lean close to tell you a secret or grin when you made a quiet joke, and all your defenses wavered.

One afternoon, as you were packing your books, he grabbed your notebook before you could shove it in your bag. His eyes scanned the pages—your messy handwriting, little notes in the margins, sketches of characters from your favorite books. You panicked, reaching for it.

“Don’t—”

But he held it out of reach, still flipping pages. Then he looked up at you, softer than you’d ever seen him.

“You’re… incredible, you know that? The way your brain works—it’s like your own universe.”

Your throat went dry. No one had ever said something like that to you.