"Then who's going to solve it?"
Cecilia Everain turned toward the class, marker still in hand. The numbers on the board waited, half-finished—like they were testing her patience too. She'd only been teaching here for a month, and Saint Anthony's Intermediate already had a way of stretching her nerves thin. New teacher, new environment, twenty-eight restless kids—she was still learning to breathe between the chaos.
Her eyes scanned the room.
No hands. No answers. Just the quiet hum of ceiling fans and the faint scratch of a pen somewhere in the front row.
Then her gaze landed on him.
The boy in the far-right corner, last bench. Staring outside the window, lost somewhere far beyond the schoolyard walls.
"You in the back," she said, a little louder this time.
No response.
She frowned, checking her attendance sheet on the desk. The name stood out near the bottom, underlined in faint pencil.
"Paul Vaxlar," she called, this time sharper than she intended.
He moved slightly—slowly turning his head toward her. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe. There was something in that look—not defiance exactly, but focus. A kind of quiet, deliberate attention that felt too heavy for a classroom.
"Yes, you," she managed, softening her tone. "Would you like to show your classmates how to solve this?"
Paul didn't speak. Didn't move either. Just kept watching her with that same unreadable expression.
"What's his problem?" she thought, a faint tremor in her chest.
When it became clear he wasn't going to answer, she turned back to the board with a nervous smile. "Alright then… anyone else?"
A hand rose from the same row—neat, composed, the contrast almost jarring.
"Varsha," Cecilia said, relief bleeding into her voice. "You're always prepared. Please, come help me out."
Varsha stood and approached the board, chalk in hand. Paul turned away again, back to the window, as if nothing in this room was worth his time.
Later
The bell rang.
Cecilia stacked her notes, brushing the chalk dust from her fingers. "Alright class, we'll continue tomorrow. Don't forget to review today's lesson."
She exhaled quietly, leaving the classroom for her next class. For a brief second, her eyes caught Paul again as she walked out. Same distant look, same silence behind his gaze."
She couldn't explain it, but something about him lingered even after the door shut.
Brian's head lifted when a nudge landed on his shoulder. He blinked, pulled out of the small daydream that lived in the back of his skull every time Cecilia walked in.
"Still staring at her?" his friend teased, voice low so the others wouldn't hear.
"Yeah," Brian admitted, heat prickling at the back of his neck. "I can't help it. When she's in the room everything else just… stops."
His mate snorted. "Mate, you know we've got zero chance, right?"
"We?" Brian turned, confused.
"Yeah, we," the friend said with a grin. "Like you and me—both hopeless. She's out of your league, bruv. Seriously."
"How do you know what she thinks?" Brian barked, half-laugh, half-defensive.
"I ain't psychic, man, I just read people," the friend said, leaning back. "Look: the way you look at her — you don't even try to hide it. You build whole damn worlds with her in them. You think she doesn't notice? Of course she notices."
"Wait—what?" Brian's voice dropped. He hadn't realized he gave that much away.
"Yep. You've gone full-on background music, mate." The friend's grin widened. "Not the romantic soundtrack—more like creepy B-side. You know those weirdos who watch from the shadows? Don't be that guy."
"No, I'm not like that," Brian protested too quickly. "You think she sees me like that?"
"Maybe, maybe not," the friend shrugged, casual. "But if you don't make a move, someone else will. And then what? You'll be left watching from the cheap seats."
A hush of chatter rolled through the room as other students packed their bags. Brian's brain tried to spit out logic but kept looping the same question: What if someone else makes a move first?
"Someone else?" he muttered. He scanned the classroom, eyes hunting for the likely contenders. They landed on the back corner—Paul Vaxlar—leaning half-out the window, all quiet and detached.
"Can't be him," the friend said, rolling his eyes. "He's too… intense. Not her type."
Brian tried to shrug. "Yeah, okay. But still—he's weirdly good-looking. And he ignored her when she called him out in class. If he ever gets involved with her, that'll be the end of civility around here." He laughed, but it had a nervous edge.
They fell into the usual noise of students leaving, but Brian couldn't shake the small, insistent knot in his chest. Paul at the window, Cecilia outside — a quiet, odd geometry that felt like it might shift any minute.
"Just—don't wait forever, yeah?" his friend said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Make a move or stop daydreaming. Either way, stop being tragic."
Brian swallowed and forced a smile. He wanted to believe he could play it cool. But the way Paul looked — that distant, unreadable stare — kept tugging at the edge of his thoughts like a thread he couldn't cut.
The hallways were empty.
Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the tall windows, cutting pale gold strips across the tiled floor.
Cecilia's heels echoed in that long corridor — click… click… click… — the sound too loud for how quiet everything else had become.
She had stayed back late again, finishing some paperwork for the head office. The last to leave, as always.
"I can't be late again," she muttered, hugging her folder tighter.
Her pace quickened — until she noticed someone by the far window.
A figure. Still.
Paul Vaxlar.
He stood alone, looking out toward the courtyard like the world beyond the glass was whispering something only he could hear.
Cecilia hesitated. She told herself to just walk — to leave.
But her steps slowed anyway, curiosity pulling invisible threads inside her chest.
She found herself stopping beside him.
The silence stretched between them.
"What are you looking at?" she asked, voice light, polite.
No response.
She followed his gaze. Just trees. The wind pressed against the glass and sighed.
"Is something wrong, Paul?" she tried again. "You've been quiet lately. You don't talk to anyone… Is there something bothering you?"
Still nothing.
"Paul?"
Finally, he spoke — his tone flat, almost mechanical.
"Don't you think you care a little too much about strangers?"
Her breath hitched. "What?"
"You heard me." His eyes didn't move from the glass. "You shouldn't get so close. If you want to live longer… do your job, and keep your distance."
"I'm your teacher," she said, keeping her voice calm. "It's my job to care."
"Yeah," he said, almost smiling. "But you don't get paid enough to play therapist."
She blinked, confused. "I—I was just trying to help you."
Paul turned his head, slowly — like a puppet being drawn by unseen strings. His eyes met hers, dark and unreadable.
"Help," he repeated. "You really think you can do that? You don't know me. Not even my name beyond the roll call. You don't know where I came from, what I've done. But still…" a small, crooked smile formed, "how kind of you — to reach out your hand to a stranger drowning."
She swallowed hard. "Everyone deserves help, Paul. You're my student. That's enough."
He stepped closer — not threatening, but unsettling in how deliberate it was.
"Deserves?" he echoed. "That's a funny word. You think you deserve to know me? To fix me? To pull my strings like I'm some broken toy?"
She froze. Strings.
For a brief second, she imagined threads running from his wrists, up into the ceiling — vanishing into shadow.
She shook the thought away. "I'm not pulling anything. I just—"
"You just care," he cut in. "That's what you tell yourself. That if you patch up enough people, it might quiet the noise in your own head."
He leaned back against the window frame. "But you haven't fixed your own strings yet, have you?"
Her throat tightened. "What do you mean?"
"Everyone's tangled in something. You… more than most." His gaze sharpened. "You've already got enough on your plate, don't you? Problems you haven't fixed yet."
The question hit harder than she wanted to admit. Her voice slipped out quieter than she meant, almost breaking:
"No… I haven't."
Paul's tone rose a little, sharp now. "Then what are you still doing here? Go. Before it's too late."
The hallway felt colder suddenly.
She tried moving. But... but her limbs didn't respond.
Then — his voice shifted, lower. "Go home, Miss Cecilia. Before your strings get pulled by the wrong hands."
And before she could respond—
"Hey!"
The shout cracked through the silence.
She turned just as Brian came storming toward them, face flushed with anger.
"You son of a bitch!" His shoes slammed against the floor as he closed the distance.
Before Paul could even blink, Brian grabbed him by the collar and shoved him into the wall. "Enough of your edgy bullshit! You're gonna apologize to her. Right now!"
Paul didn't move. Didn't resist. His expression stayed empty, unreadable, like a script he'd already memorized.
"Brian—" Cecilia's voice shook, startled.
He didn't listen. "You're fine, right, ma'am? This bastard's gonna pay for what he said. I let it go in class, but this—this is too much."
His hand tightened around Paul's collar, rage vibrating through every muscle. "She was trying to help you! And you talk to her like that?"
He drew his arm back, fist clenched.
I know what you want.
"What—?"
Before Brian could swing, Cecilia's voice snapped through the air.
"Stop this. Now."
He froze.
For a moment, no one moved. The only sound was the heavy rhythm of their breathing.
Then Brian slowly lowered his hand. His grip loosened, releasing Paul's collar.
Cecilia's eyes stayed on Paul.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Paul fixed his shirt calmly, eyes flicking once to Cecilia.
"Told you," Quiet words escaped his lips. Like it was only meant for her. "Strings always end up tangled."
And with that, he walked away — unhurried, fading down the corridor like the final line of a script already written.
Cecilia stood frozen, watching him disappear.
She felt the faintest tug in her chest, like someone had cut a thread she didn't know existed.