The next morning, the corridors felt different. Not because the school had changed, but because I had changed. Every glance, every echo of footsteps, reminded me that he existed somewhere in this maze of classrooms and lockers.
I didn't expect him to notice me. And yet, when I rounded the corner toward the library, there he was, leaning against the doorway with that same quiet attentiveness. He looked up, and for a second, our eyes locked.
"Hey," he said. Not just a greeting, but an acknowledgment. A bridge between the distance that had existed yesterday.
"Hey," I returned, heart hammering, words suddenly feeling heavier than I expected.
He tilted his head toward the library. "You always come here alone?"
I shrugged, pretending nonchalance. "Mostly. It's… quieter."
He smiled, small but genuine. "I like quiet too."
And that was it—the first real conversation. Nothing grand, nothing sweeping. But somehow, in the way his eyes met mine and the casual tilt of his shoulders, it felt like a beginning.
We walked together down the aisle of books, the silence between us comfortable, filled with something unspoken yet tangible. Every so often, our hands brushed against the same shelf, sending small sparks through my chest.
"Do you draw?" I asked suddenly, remembering the sketchbook under the oak tree.
He blinked, surprised, then nodded. "Yeah. Sometimes."
"Can I see?"
He hesitated. For a moment, I feared I had overstepped, but then he reached into his bag and pulled out a sketchbook. Page after page revealed the world through his eyes—quiet streets, falling leaves, sun slipping through clouds. There was honesty in each line, a sense of wonder I hadn't expected.
"It's… amazing," I said softly, my voice barely audible.
He shrugged, cheeks tinged pink. "It's just what I see."
"No," I insisted. "It's more than that. You make the ordinary… unforgettable."
He looked at me, really looked at me, and I felt my own heartbeat loud in the space between words. For the first time, he didn't just respond with a smile—he seemed to understand.
When the bell rang, signaling the end of the break, we walked toward the exit together. Neither of us spoke much, but it didn't matter. The connection had been made. The first words had been spoken.
And for the first time, I realized that sometimes, the most important conversations happen not with words, but with presence.
As he waved goodbye and turned down the hall, I whispered again, almost to myself:
"Your name is already on my lips."