The chatter of classmates washed over me, a meaningless wave of sound. I didn’t bother to pretend I wasn’t listening; I was already on the list for ‘disruptive noise’ anyway. Let them complain. The teachers were gone, and I was perfectly content to let the chaos swirl around me.
My gaze was fixed on her. She was talking, probably about something pointless—she always did—but I couldn’t look away. Her voice, loud and free, was a constant, liberating current. She didn't care if she was the loudest, the most reckless. I adored that bravery.
I didn't dare try to talk to her. Not yet. Not ever, maybe. My introverted shell was too thick, too brittle.
“Hey!”
The voice startled me. She was looking right at *me*.
“Can you stop gazing into space and cooperate?” Her tone was sharp, annoyed.
Huh? She… she was talking to *me*?
Wow.
“Oh uh… okay.” I fumbled for words. “What did Ms. say we were supposed to do?” She was playing with her pencil, twirling it between her fingers, a small, familiar habit.
“Didn’t you listen?” She rolled her eyes, her expression a perfect storm of impatience. “She said we need to make a Venn diagram comparing and contrasting adverbs and adjectives.”
“(Y/N)! Be nice to him!” One of our classmates chimed in. “He’s shy.”
She stuck her tongue out playfully, but the gesture felt… different.
That’s how she always was. Loud. Reckless. Unapologetic.
But today… today it felt like our roles had reversed. Like we’d switched bodies.
I looked out the window, my gaze drifting to her. She was carrying boxes out of a car, struggling with the weight.
My everything. The thought was a quiet, desperate prayer. I wanted to help her, to be near her. But my feet were glued to the floor. I could only watch her, silently adoring her from afar.