Joya didn't sleep well that night.
Sudom's voice kept returning to her, soft and casual, saying her name like it had always belonged there. She turned from side to side, reminding herself not to imagine things that didn't exist. A few words didn't mean anything. A small moment didn't change everything.
At least, that's what she told herself.
The next morning, she walked to school with a quiet tension in her chest. She didn't know what she was hoping for—or what she was afraid of. Seeing him felt dangerous now. Not seeing him felt worse.
When she entered the classroom, Sudom was already there.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
This time, neither of them looked away immediately.
It was only a second. Maybe less. But something passed between them—uncertain, fragile, and unspoken. Sudom gave a small smile, not wide or confident, just enough to acknowledge her.
Joya felt her heart stumble.
She sat down quickly, pretending to focus on her books, but the words blurred in front of her eyes. Was she imagining it? Or had something truly changed since that afternoon?
During break, she heard her friends talking about him. Someone mentioned his laugh. Someone else mentioned his kindness. Joya listened quietly, her fingers tightening around her pen.
So many people knew him.
So many people could talk to him freely.
And she still couldn't.
Later, as the day slowly faded into evening, Joya stood by the road again. The sky shifted into familiar colors, soft and uncertain, just like her heart.
Sudom rode past.
This time, he slowed down.
He didn't stop.
He didn't speak.
But he looked at her.
Really looked at her.
Joya felt a mix of hope and fear rise inside her. Because once someone starts looking at you that way, staying hidden becomes harder.
And for the first time, she wondered if this quiet love could remain silent for much longer.