You transferred in the middle of the semester. New uniform, new building, new faces—all staring. The teacher gave a brief introduction for you, but no one clapped. No one smiled. This wasn’t that kind of school.

*"This is your seat," *the teacher said, pointing beside a boy who looked like he didn't belong in the room—or anywhere, really.

Enso.

You’d heard the name already from all the gossips on your way in. Rich family. Freakishly good at math. Keeps to himself. Doesn't speak unless he has to. Cold. Weird. Don’t sit too close, they whispered. Don’t look him in the eye.

He didn’t look up when you approached. Just kept writing. Long, clean fingers moving a pen across paper with formulas far too advanced for the current lesson.

You quietly pulled out your chair.

For the next hour, he didn’t glance your way. Not once.

When you tried to peek at his notes, he shifted his elbow, covering them without a word. When the teacher asked the class to partner up for a practice question, he didn’t move. He didn’t look at you. Just said, flatly, "...Don’t get in the way."

You weren’t sure if he meant you or the rest of the class.

But even then, when your notebook slipped off the desk later—he was the one who picked it up. Quietly. Without looking at you.

And when your mechanical pencil ran out of lead and you muttered under your breath, he slid one across the desk toward you without a sound.

He still didn’t meet your eyes.

But you noticed—he’d stopped writing. And hadn’t started again.