She always had to tilt her head up to look at him.
Soft black hair framing her cheeks, eyes bright—as if he were the only person in them.
It made Alexander Sterling unbearably uncomfortable.
He took the rag without touching her fingers.
"Stop following me."
His voice was ice.
Sophia just nodded, unfazed. "Okay."
Alexander turned away.
By noon, the faculty dining hall buzzed with activity. The principal's entourage had arrived, and Alexander needed to move—but Sophia still hovered two steps behind, clutching a water bucket like some childish hostage negotiator.
When he glared, she blinked innocently, mouthing:
"I'm not following you."
Then proceeded to shadow him through the crowd, dodging trays until she was at his side again.
"Don't be mad," she whispered, scooping clam shells with a spoon. "I just don't like people being mean to you."
Only someone coddled their whole life could say that so earnestly.
To Alexander, those words hadn't even registered as insults.
"Not mad," he said, avoiding her gaze. "You shouldn't be here."
Sophia tightened her grip on the spoon. "I wanted to keep you company."
Alexander's jaw clenched.
He snatched the bucket back.
As the lunch rush faded, a tourism ad played on the dining hall TV, its cheerful melody at odds with the tension between them.
Outside, the summer's last heatwave blazed.
Alexander glanced back.
Sophia was still there—quietly trailing him, dabbing at water stains with scented tissues until every surface gleamed.
The Letter
All afternoon, Sophia's mind churned.
During music class, while others watched an old film, she hid by the window drafting a complaint letter to the principal.
Tattling was her specialty.
Eleanor had taught her young: "If you tolerate bullies, they'll never stop."
In her past life, she'd wielded that lesson pettily—reporting boys who pulled her hair or mocked her chest size.
Now, she had bigger targets.
Before leaving the cafeteria, she'd memorized the manager's name and ID from the staff board.
This was Alexander Sterling.
Future alumnus of the year.
A boy who'd saved her life.
Even if he'd never achieved greatness, what right did some petty official have to demean him?
By the time she finished, the page was crammed with indignation.
She folded it carefully, then hesitated.
On the blank back, she added:
Sophia Carter
Daughter of Eleanor Carter, CEO of Carter Apparel
Sorry, Mom.
She pressed her hands together in silent apology.
Just this once, she'd borrow Eleanor's influence.
For the boy who'd died protecting her.
Evening Study
When Alexander returned for night classes, Sophia nearly dropped her pencil.
Empty for weeks, the seat beside her now held his tall frame.
He came back.
A month into her rebirth, this was her first real taste of the butterfly effect—how one small change could alter everything.
Last life, he hadn't reappeared until mid-autumn.
She'd stacked his untouched handouts neatly, math and physics on top for easy access.
Now he bundled them all into his desk without a glance.
Sophia's heart sank.
As the study bell rang, Alexander pulled out unfamiliar worksheets—dense with symbols she couldn't decipher.
The room was silent under the dean's patrol.
Sophia fidgeted, then scribbled on scrap paper:
[Are we okay now?]
[Will you still share homework?]
Alexander read it, then folded the note.
"I'll write at home."
His right hand couldn't sustain the awkward angle required for long.
He wouldn't let her see that struggle.
Sophia beamed, adding another line:
[You're the best.]
[Your writing's pretty.]
[Even if it wasn't, you'd still be enough.]
Alexander Sterling had been back for a week.
True to his word, he'd continued providing homework—just switched hands.
At first, he'd refused to write in front of her. But Sophia's relentless pestering wore him down.
He wasn't a natural lefty.
His wrist bent at an unnatural angle, palm nearly perpendicular to the desk. The strokes slanted awkwardly, slower and messier than his right-handed script.
He could feel Sophia watching.
Her eyes—wide and luminous—flicked to his hands constantly. Blinking like butterfly wings whenever she pretended to check the time.
A two-page math assignment that should've taken minutes to solve stretched into half the period.
When he turned the page, her gaze snapped up again.
Alexander stilled.
He didn't need her to speak to know her thoughts:
Pity for his disability.
Or scorn for the spectacle he made of himself.
The second study hall was quieter, just the class monitor scribbling at the podium.
Sophia's stare grew bolder when he stopped writing.
"Finished already?"
Her whisper brushed his ear, bright and conspiratorial.
"I can't believe you don't even need to read the questions."
She switched her pen to her left hand, attempting his surname—"Xu"—with toddler-like clumsiness.
Then hid it under her palm, embarrassed.
"Way harder than I thought. You're amazing."
Her breath warmed his arm as she leaned in, oblivious to how her rabbit hair tie bobbed above the bookstand.
The monitor pointed silently.
Sophia straightened, miming a zipped mouth.
Alexander pressed his lips together.
The Mimicry
Class 4-B had suffered a drought of handsome boys.
At first, the guys enjoyed the attention—shouting Alexander's name so girls would flock to their door, giggling and preening.
But after days of being ignored, the spectacle died.
Alexander sat by the aisle, desk conspicuously bare. No towering book stacks to hide behind.
Bored, the boys found new entertainment:
Mimicking his left-handed writing.
Sleeves tugged down, wrists cocked at absurd angles—they cackled through exaggerated strokes.
Even Mia noticed.
"Did you hear them?" she hissed in the hall. "They're calling him... you know."
The word disabled hit Sophia like a slap.
She raised her voice deliberately:
"Some people have never met a lefty before, I guess."
"How jealous do you have to be to make up lies about handwriting?"
Nearby girls nodded.
Mia relaxed. "Exactly! If his grades and looks were perfect, that'd be unfair."
Sophia hummed, thoughts churning.
Fate wasn't fair.
The Alexander she'd known wore gloves constantly, signing documents with effortless grace.
She'd never imagined how hard this must be for him at seventeen.
The Shift
The week before National Day brought unexpected changes:
First, her complaint worked. The dining hall manager was replaced, and Alexander transferred to the new library annex—harder work, but better pay.
Second, orchestra rehearsals intensified for the senior pledge ceremony. Which meant seeing Lucas Grant constantly.
He'd started bringing her food—octopus balls, fancy pastries, boba tea—all of which she redistributed to classmates.
Mia refused. The math rep grew chubby.
But everything paled compared to Thursday afternoon.
PE class. Roll call.
At the line's end stood a figure in pristine white:
Alexander Sterling.
Sunset gilded his sharp features as he lifted his gaze—
And for the first time, met Sophia's eyes in daylight.