I walked slowly along the sidewalk.
In my right hand was a freshly baked croissant, still warm.
The food at the orphanage was truly terrible.
Sometimes, you couldn't help but wonder whether eating it for too long would even let you see the next day.
The thought slipped into my mind without warning.
And before I realized it, I found myself lingering on it.
Aethor couldn't help but think about it.
Aethor slowly begins to observe his surroundings.
Aethor's relationship with the city had never been warm.
Buildings were not homes to him—
just stacks of concrete piled on top of one another.
The streets offered no sense of belonging, only distances meant to be crossed.
And people…
They were nothing more than passing shadows.
As he walked, he didn't look at anyone.
Not because he avoided eye contact—
but because he saw nothing worth looking at.
The city's noise—horns, voices, footsteps—
all blended into a meaningless background hum.
The city did not speak to him.
It did not call out to him.
And Aethor did not respond.
He was not part of this city.
He was merely passing through it.
And as if life agreed with this thought, the answer came immediately.
Aethor was drawing attention without realizing it.
But it wasn't fear.
It was the kind of presence that pulled people's eyes toward him without intention.
Those who passed by glanced back.
Some hesitated for a brief moment, then continued on without questioning why they had looked.
Others quickly averted their gaze, as if staring too long would be inappropriate.
There was no unease in those looks.
There was curiosity.
There was admiration.
And an attraction they couldn't quite explain.
Aethor's walk was ordinary.
His school uniform was plain and unremarkable.
There was nothing that should have stood out.
Yet they looked anyway.
Because it wasn't about clothes or posture.
There was something subtly out of place about his face—
too precise,
too flawless,
more defined than it should have been.
Even within the crowd, he stood alone.
People didn't approach him.
They chose to observe from a distance.
Aethor didn't care.
He was used to people looking at him.
To him, it was neither praise nor meaning.
It was simply—
another invisible distance placed between him and the world
As I approached the school gate, the crowd grew denser.
Students arrived in groups—laughter, loud conversations, familiar noise.
Everything felt ordinary.
Until I stepped inside.
The attention gathered around me—not all at once,
but in waves.
A few voices fell silent.
Conversations slowed.
Then whispers began to spread.
There was no hostility in those looks.
No fear.
No discomfort.
Only curiosity.
And admiration people didn't quite know how to hide
Some stared openly.
Others tried not to, but failed.
There were girls—and boys as well.
The glances made no distinction.
The same unspoken question echoed across their faces:
"Who is that?"
Aethor felt it.
But he didn't stop.
He didn't lift his head,
nor did he return their gazes.
He walked through the crowd and into the school grounds,
as if none of it belonged to him.
It wasn't really that important anyway. The same things had happened at the orphanage, but because of my personality, everyone had grown cold towards me. They expected the same behaviour at school.
Yet without realizing it,
he had already broken the school's first unspoken rule:
From the very first day,
he had become someone impossible to ignore.
Aethor stole what he didn't know. The children in the orphanage were all very mature because they had been fighting for survival since they came into this world, but could the same be said for high school teenagers who hadn't experienced this?
When I reached the classroom door, voices spilled out from inside.
Laughter, chairs scraping, overlapping conversations…
As my hand touched the handle, the door creaked softly.
I stepped inside.
The noise faded—
not all at once,
but enough.
Conversations were cut short.
Half-finished sentences lingered in the air.
Eyes turned toward me almost simultaneously.
This wasn't like the school gate.
It was closer.
Sharper.
The same expression appeared across the
room:
curiosity, admiration…
and something they couldn't quite name.
No one spoke.
No one stood up.
It felt as though an invisible line had been drawn,
and everyone chose to stay on the other side of it.
I didn't react.
I walked further into the room, found an empty seat, and sat down.
The sound of the chair echoed through the classroom.
Even that small noise felt too loud.
Without lifting my head, I set my bag down beside me.
And in that moment, I understood:
In this classroom, being invisible was not an option
The classroom door opened once more.
This time, the one who entered was not a student.
The moment the teacher stepped inside, the remaining noise vanished completely.
Chairs stilled.
Whispers fell silent.
He was a neatly dressed man in his mid-forties.
He placed the folders in his hand on the desk and swept his gaze across the room.
His eyes passed over each student in turn—
out of habit,
quickly.
Until…
They stopped.
His gaze lingered on me.
Just a second.
Maybe two.
But that brief pause was noticeable.
The teacher said nothing.
His expression didn't change.
Yet there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes—
something no routine could explain.
Then he gave a slight nod and turned back to the desk.
"Good morning," he said, his voice steady.
"Take your seats."
As the class shifted quietly, the teacher glanced down at the attendance list.
But I had already understood one thing:
He had seen me.
And seeing me was not something he had expected.
But there was something strange in his gaze.
It wasn't a look I was used to.
There was no lust in it.
No admiration.
I didn't quite know how to describe it.
But the way my teacher looked at me was as if he had noticed a higher predator than himself.
There was fear in his eyes.
But not the kind that makes one flee.
There was also submission—
instinctive, involuntary, desperately suppressed.
As if his instincts had reacted faster than his mind.
And in that moment, I understood:
This was not a response to beauty.
It was a response to dominance.
Did I do something wrong again?
The teacher's reaction didn't seem to have any other explanation.
At least, not at first.
But when Aethor looked at him again,
he realized that the gaze had completely returned to normal.
Whatever he had seen before—
the fear, the hesitation, that fleeting sense of submission—
was gone.
All that remained was an ordinary teacher.
Composed.
Controlled.
Distant.
Or…
did I misunderstand it?
Maybe it had been nothing more than a momentary illusion.
Perhaps just fatigue.
Yet the unease lingering inside him insisted
that it hadn't been a misunderstanding at all.
Just as I was about to sink deeper into my thoughts,
the classroom door suddenly swung open.
With a sharp sound.
The teacher turned toward the door on instinct.
His expression hardened—clearly displeased that it had been opened without a knock.
He opened his mouth.
About to scold.
But—
The moment he saw who had entered, he stopped.
The words died in his throat.
His voice never came.
A brief silence fell over the classroom—