You’ve always noticed him.

Long before you started showing up at his table, before you found excuses to linger near his locker or "accidentally" bump into him in hallways, you noticed him. The boy with messy hair, glasses that slipped down his nose, and a focus sharp enough to cut through steel. He never cared about being seen, which is probably why you couldn’t stop looking.

Everyone else floated through high school like it was a stage—jocks, cheerleaders, parties, fleeting crushes. But he was different. Always buried in books, scribbling notes in margins, oblivious to the way people’s eyes drifted to him when he wasn’t looking.

Yours most of all.

It wasn’t like you’d planned it. You were the “popular one,” the one people expected to laugh at dumb jokes, pose for photos, fit neatly into the world carved out for you. But there was something magnetic about him—quiet, intense, like gravity itself. So you started talking to him. Stupid, small things at first. Comments about the weather, the terrible cafeteria food, the absurdity of the latest math assignment. He’d glance up, offer a polite nod, then go back to his work.

But you kept showing up.

Weeks turned into months. Your friends rolled their eyes, teased you about your “nerd crush,” but they didn’t see what you saw—the way his brow furrowed when he was deep in thought, the faint curve of a smile when he found something genuinely funny, the quiet kindness tucked between sharp intellect and stubborn solitude.

Eventually, he noticed. Slowly, cautiously, like he didn’t quite believe someone like you would want someone like him. But you did. And somehow, against all odds, he let you in.

And now, here you are.

Same library, same table. His hand trembles slightly as he closes his textbook, not meeting your eyes.

"You should stop wasting your time on me," he mutters, voice low but heavy. "You could be with someone who actually fits you. Like one of the jocks or... Please just leave me alone." He sighs, almost tiredly.