The morning sun filtered through the leaves of the old oak trees lining the quiet streets, casting dappled shadows on the pavement. The boy walked leisurely, his hands stuffed into his pockets, whistling a soft tune as the cool morning breeze ruffled his hair. The air smelled faintly of dew, a freshness he always enjoyed before the hum of the school day took over.
As he turned a corner near the school, he spotted her—standing a few feet away, clutching the strap of her bag, her gaze darting nervously toward him. She wasn't under the trees or pressed against a wall, but standing in plain view, as if she had been waiting.
The boy slowed his steps, his usual easy grin softening into curiosity. He wasn't sure why she was there, but he raised a hand in a casual greeting as he approached.
"Morning," he said, his voice warm and steady.
Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out at first. She looked like she wanted to speak but couldn't find the right words. After a moment of hesitation, she stepped forward, her movements stiff and unsure.
"I… I'm sorry about yesterday," she finally said, her voice so soft it was almost drowned out by the rustling leaves above. "I hope I didn't… I mean, I wasn't trying to be rude."
The boy stopped, tilting his head slightly as if to catch her words more clearly. Then, his grin widened, and he laughed—not mockingly, but with a genuine, easygoing charm.
"Don't worry about it. It's no big deal," he replied, shrugging. "I get it. Sometimes people just need space."
The girl blinked, her shoulders relaxing slightly, though she still avoided his gaze. "I… I just didn't know what to say," she admitted, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweater.
He smiled again, but this time it was softer, less teasing. "Well, you're saying something now, so that's a start. How about you? How're you doing?"
Her cheeks turned a faint shade of pink as she glanced at him briefly before looking away again. "I'm… okay, I guess," she mumbled.
"Good to hear," he said, his voice light. "See? Talking's not so bad."
She didn't respond, but he noticed the faintest twitch of her lips, as if she were suppressing a smile. Before he could say more, the school bell rang in the distance.
"Well, see you in class," he said, waving casually as he walked ahead.
The girl stood there for a moment, watching his figure retreat into the distance. Her heart felt strangely light, though she couldn't quite put her finger on why.
------
The night before, she'd barely slept.
Lying in bed, her thoughts replayed the day like a broken record. She cringed at the memory of running away from him—the boy who had simply tried to talk to her. How could she have acted so rude? He wasn't like the others. He wasn't mean or dismissive. He'd approached her like it was the most normal thing in the world, and what had she done? Bolted like a frightened animal.
What if he thinks I'm weird now? she thought, clutching her pillow tightly. No. He probably already thought that. Everyone does.
Her chest felt heavy, as it often did when these thoughts took over. She'd spent years being "the quiet one," "the weird girl," the one no one wanted to talk to. But this time, it was different. He'd smiled at her—genuinely smiled—and she'd run away.
Tomorrow, she told herself, her stomach twisting at the thought. Tomorrow I'll say something. I'll apologize. I have to.
Her mind drifted further back, to the time when everything had started to fall apart. She had been eight when she was diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia. The treatments were grueling, taking away her energy, her hair, and the normalcy of childhood. She had spent months in and out of the hospital, away from school, away from people her age.
When she finally returned to school, thinner and weaker, the whispers began. She had no idea how, but the news of her illness had spread. Some classmates looked at her with pity, which she hated. Others were cruel, saying things like, "Don't get too close. You might catch it," or, "She's going to die soon anyway."
The words stung, embedding themselves deep in her mind. She tried to fight back at first, to insist that her illness wasn't contagious, that she wasn't some fragile doll. But the damage was done. The isolation became easier to bear than the mockery. Over time, she stopped trying to make friends, retreating into herself and the world of her sketchbook.
Now, years later, she was in remission. Her health had improved, but the scars remained. She couldn't shake the feeling that she didn't belong, that she'd never be more than "the weird girl."
But yesterday… yesterday had been different.
The boy—his name was Kaito, she remembered now—had spoken to her like none of that mattered. He didn't know about her past, and maybe that was why he treated her like she was normal.
Normal. The word felt foreign on her tongue.
She had to apologize to him, she decided. She had to thank him for not treating her like she was invisible. She didn't know if she could say all of that, but she would at least try.
-----
(Present time)
The classroom buzzed with the usual chatter of students settling into their seats. The girl slipped in quietly, taking her usual spot near the back corner, where she could observe without being noticed.
The teacher stood at the front, clapping her hands to get everyone's attention. "All right, class. Today we're starting a new project. It's going to be a group effort, so listen up!"
The room quieted down, the students' interest piqued.
"You'll be working in pairs to create a piece of art that represents an abstract concept," the teacher explained. "It could be emotions, memories, dreams—whatever inspires you. Use any medium you like, but be prepared to present your work and explain your concept."
Excited murmurs filled the room as the students began looking around, signaling to their friends.
"You can choose your own partners," the teacher added, smiling.
The girl's chest tightened. She kept her eyes fixed on her desk, pretending to look through her notebook. She knew how this would go. It was always the same.
Around her, the shuffling of desks and the murmur of voices paired off the students one by one. Her heart sank as she heard her classmates calling out to each other.
"Hey, want to be partners?"
"Let's team up!"
Minutes passed, and soon the noise settled. When she finally dared to look up, she realized everyone else had already paired off. Everyone… except her.
She felt the familiar sting of rejection creeping in, her fingers gripping the edges of her desk. She kept her head low, hoping the teacher might assign her to someone so she wouldn't have to endure this moment any longer.
"Hey."
The voice was calm and casual, but it startled her nonetheless. She looked up to see him—the boy from this morning—standing by her desk, his hands in his pockets and that familiar grin on his face.
"Want to work together?" he asked.
She blinked, unsure if she'd heard him correctly. For a moment, she couldn't respond. Was he serious?
"Uh… y-yeah," she stammered, her voice barely audible.
"Cool," he said, pulling a chair over to her desk. He sat down, leaning back comfortably. "Guess we're partners now."
She stared at him, still trying to process what had just happened. He didn't seem fazed at all, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
"So," he said, pulling out a notebook. "Any ideas for the project? I was thinking something about dreams—like, how they can be weird but also tell you stuff about yourself."
She hesitated before responding. "That… could work," she said softly. "Dreams can mean different things to different people."
"Exactly!" he said, snapping his fingers. "You get it. I like the way you think."
Her cheeks flushed again, but this time it wasn't just embarrassment. There was something about the way he spoke to her—like her thoughts mattered.
As they continued brainstorming, she found herself speaking more than she expected. He listened intently, nodding and occasionally chiming in with his own ideas.
"You've got a good eye for this stuff," he said at one point, glancing at the quick sketches she'd made in the margins of her notebook. "I mean it. You're talented."
She looked down, trying to hide her smile. "Thanks," she murmured.
By the time the class ended, they had a rough plan for their project. As they packed up their things, the boy turned to her with a grin.
"This is going to be fun. See you tomorrow," he said, giving her a wave as he walked out.
She watched him leave, a strange warmth spreading through her chest. For the first time in a long while, she felt like she wasn't invisible.
When she got home that evening, she sat by her desk, staring at her sketchbook. Slowly, she opened it and began to draw—not because she had to, but because she wanted to.