The school's annual cultural week was approaching. Corridors buzzed with posters, announcements, and the soft hustle of classroom preparations. Sia preferred staying in the background, quietly observing.
When the English teacher assigned a small display board task, the class monitor called out two names:
"Sia… and Yuvan."
Their reactions were simple. Sia blinked slowly, Yuvan nodded while closing his file. No excitement. No awkwardness. Just acceptance.
At the library hall, a long table was set up with chart papers, pins, and cut-outs. Sia stood on the left, observing the layout plan. Yuvan worked on the right, sorting sheets. Silence was comfortable, not empty.
"We should start with the title… so spacing is easier," Sia suggested softly.
"Bold or cursive?" Yuvan asked.
"Cursive feels cleaner," she replied.
He picked up the marker and wrote neatly—soft curves, steady strokes.
"A good handwriting is rare," Sia murmured.
"Just write slow," Yuvan said with a half-smile.
No forced interaction. No accidental touches. Just calm, real teamwork.
A quote slipped to the floor:
"Quiet minds often hold the loudest dreams."
Sia smiled slightly. Yuvan noticed.
"You like it?"
"It fits the theme," she said.
"Then let's place it at the center," he suggested thoughtfully.
Both leaned slightly closer to align it. Close, but not uncomfortable. Just… a shared presence.
After finishing half the board, Yuvan stepped aside to sip water, casually commenting,
"You work quietly… but efficiently."
"I don't like messing around. If I start, I finish neatly," Sia replied.
"I noticed," he said simply.
The board was completed—a clean, balanced layout. The teacher complimented them:
"This is done beautifully."
Yuvan and Sia exchanged a quiet nod. A small acknowledgment: We worked well together.
---
Later that week came the annual inter-house activity—competitions, outdoor tasks, and a campus alive with noise. Sia preferred quieter routines, but her English teacher gave her the perfect task:
"Record the scores. Just note-keeping."
Sia stationed herself on a shaded bench with her clipboard. Amid the chaos of students warming up, shouting, and bouncing balls, she felt a familiar presence—Yuvan.
He checked team lists, white sports tee, sleeves folded, calm posture. Their eyes met briefly, exchanging a small nod. A gentle hello.
Games began. Sia quietly noted the scores. When the teacher asked Yuvan to verify the tallies, he approached her. First, he noticed her neat writing.
"You write very neatly."
"Thank you," Sia replied, feeling a warm flicker inside.
During the last relay, Yuvan ran the final lap, focused, disciplined. Sia admired his effort silently. After crossing the finish line, he confirmed the scores with her.
"Blue House—first," she noted.
"Good," he said, calm and steady.
"You performed well," Sia said softly.
"Hmm," he nodded.
Walking back, side by side, quiet, unhurried, no heavy conversation—just small exchanges:
"Your handwriting saved confusion today."
"You ran clean laps."
"Hm."
"Hmm."
At the school gate, they parted ways.
Nothing dramatic. No obvious turning point. Just quiet noticing, soft acknowledgment, and calm familiarity slowly forming.
Sia wasn't invisible to Yuvan anymore. And Yuvan wasn't just a senior. They had a real connection—subtle, ordinary, but growing.