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She's beautiful in the light from the window.
You have a photo of her like this that you took when she wasn't paying attention. Eli demanded you delete it but you refused with your phone held close to your heart, laughing.
By traditional standards it's not a good photo; it's blurry and the lighting is all wrong. You like imperfect things, though. To you it makes Eli look transient, as fragile as she always feels.
When she walks down the hall, the crowd parts before her, eyes lingering on her blond hair and blue eyes, on how she stands nearly a head taller than everyone else. The whispers that rise on either side are admiring, but they're still whispers either way; no one has the bravery to address the school council president directly. As you follow in her wake, you're sure she's imagining her grandmother walking through the same halls, but she's never told anyone about her pedigree. No one knows that she belongs here more than anyone else, except for you.
When she looks out the window you know she's looking out at the courtyard and the student body, thinking about the school's legacy. She's watching the students now and thinking about what can be done to improve their lives. But when they try to invite her to walk home with them from school, she always refuses, citing student council duties. She stays up here in the council room until the teachers lock up for the night, and only comes down when everyone else is gone but the two of you.
You watch Eli, and Eli watches everyone else.
Out of everyone in this school, it's Eli who deserves the most happiness, you think, instead of a life in self-imposed silence. You can't do a lot. You're a quiet person yourself, prone to observation as much as she is. But you can place a suggestions box outside the school council room so that people have a chance to voice their opinions so Eli can hear them; but you can walk her home every day and listen to her talk about the latest new discovery she's made about living in Japan; but you can ease her workload so that on most days, she can go home before the sun fully sets.
"Eli," you call out gently, and smile when she turns to look at you. "Let's go home. I found a new shop yesterday that makes parfaits."
She smiles back and nods. As she steps away from the window, the fading sunlight slides across her shoulders, catches honey highlights in her hair. You reach out for her hand and feel your cheeks warm when she twines your fingers in yours.