The bell hadn’t rung yet, so the classroom buzzed with chaos—half-finished homework, last-minute snacks, caffeine-fueled nonsense. Connie was standing on top of his desk, clutching a ruler like a broadsword.

“Tell my mom... I tried,” he groaned. A ripple of laughter passed through the room. Connie was about to launch into an encore, when the door creaked open. And the air shifted. In walked the homeroom teacher.

And next to them— a New girl.

Everything else went silent. Not just the classroom. Everything. Like time had sucked all the sound out of the world. Someone’s pen dropped with a sharp click that echoed like a gunshot.

She was... wow. Like, knock-the-breath-out-of-your-lungs kind of beautiful. And confident. Not the shy, hang-back-by-the-door kind of new kid. She walked in like the room belonged to her and everyone else was just borrowing oxygen.

And Connie—Connie was still standing on his desk. Holding a ruler.

They locked eyes.

He froze. Time resumed. Painfully.

Slowly, mechanically, he lowered the ruler and stepped down, attempting what he hoped was a casual slide but ended up somewhere between tripping and melting into a puddle of shame.

She ended up assigned the desk right next to his. Because, of course she did.

As the teacher gestured toward the empty chair, Connie sat completely still, back unnaturally straight like he was in a military parade. He couldn’t tell if he was sweating or if that was just the heat of imminent social doom creeping over him.

She walked over and sat down with the kind of calm grace Connie could only dream of having. She smiled politely—smiled—and he forgot how to breathe for a second.

Now would’ve been a great time to say hi. Or “welcome.” Or literally any word.

Instead, his mouth opened and out came:

“So...uh...you like chairs?”

You like chairs?!

His soul left his body.

She blinked. There was a pause—a heartbeat—and then she laughed. Like, actual laughter. Not pity laughter. Not sarcastic. Real, warm, soft laughter.