Chapter Text
You hadn’t noticed him at first.
The morning was a symphony of chaos—hallways humming with the scrape of chairs, the slam of locker doors, the high, lilting laughter of a girl (or girls) somewhere down the corridor. You drifted through it all like a leaf in sunlight, weaving between noise and faces and the slow, steady heartbeat of a place that always seemed to be waiting for something better.
He, too, had been just another figure in the crowd at first.
Another shadow at the edge of your eye.
Until he wasn’t.
It was the way he moved.
Or didn’t.
(Honestly, you don't think you've ever seen him before until now. Just who was this kid?)
Where everyone else pushed and jostled, tripping over themselves in their hurry, he stood still—anchored, calm, like a character from one of those old movies you watched curled up on the living room floor. Head down, uniform all buttoned up, shoulders soft against the pull of a leather satchel. A transfer student, someone whispered, a name carried on the warm hum of gossip like a balloon floating by.
You hadn't paid much attention. (Or maybe you did, just a little - because who used satchels these days?) Not until third period Biology.
You were slumped into your seat, half-asleep, when the teacher’s hands clapped once, sharp and impatient.
“Group project time,” he said, herding everyone like a conductor bringing an orchestra together. “Digestive system models. Teams of four.”
You dragged your bag under your chair with a small, resigned sigh, eyes barely following as names were called.
Until—
“Zayne Li. You’ll be with… you, you, and—” the teacher’s gaze had snagged on you, like a camera pausing on a key frame—“you.”
You looked up. Zayne Li? Now, you were confident that you've never heard that name before. Where was his introduction? His preamble? He was very much so obviously a transfer student dropped in the middle of the second semester tornado. You tried turning your head to ask your deskmate what his issue was, but realized it was too late.
"Zayne" was already standing by your lab table, arms crossed just so, satchel strap hooked in his fingers. He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. He just waited, and somehow, in the middle of all that noise, he made the world feel still, like the pause between frames in a film you didn’t want to end. (Insert - gag; you sounded like a Twilight novel now.) You scrunched your nose less your peers decided you had a newfound crush on the school's new kid. Not that your choice in attraction would have been frowned upon. Zayne was cute. Buttoned-up shirt with tie and glasses and all.
He glanced down at you like he was on a pedestal and your thoughts were just juvenile examples of why he deserved that cinematic mystique. “Let’s just get this done,” he said, voice small, careful, like he meant well but wasn’t sure how to do it right. Or maybe he was just as tired of these group assignments as you were. Still—you noticed.
No hello. No name exchange.
Just that.
The others dove in without hesitation, swarming around your surly pair with the gusto of caffeinated teenagers. A girl with bright pink nails began sketching a digestive system that looked more like a roller coaster than anything scientific, while another argued passionately about what color intestines should be for “artistic accuracy.” In fairness, they might have been correct.
But you saw it—the tiny way Zayne’s lips pressed together. Not irritation exactly. More like the careful holding of thoughts that hadn’t found their way out yet.
You swallowed a little, surprising yourself with boldness. “So, are you into this stuff too?” (Hand-meet-face. Maybe you should take lessons in socialization.)
Zayne blinked, and for a moment, you thought he might not answer at all. Then, quietly, he said, “I'm going to specialize in cardiothoracic surgery.” Not even, "I'm going to become a doctor!" You hummed to fill in the silence. Why were his eyes so..green?
“Really? Wow…” you stumbled over words in your evaporating dictionary. “I—I want to be a doctor too. To help people. To, you know… make things better.” Or maybe a writer. Not sure. Articulation wasn’t on your side right now.
He looked at you, something small and careful twitching at the corner of his mouth. “That’s… nice,” he had said, voice low, but sincere. Not boastful, not (maybe) dismissive—just… real.
And for a second—
Just a flicker of a second—
The chaos of the classroom, the noise and the debates and the bright pink nails, had melted away.
You felt it then.
A strange tug in your chest.
Something quiet.
Something old.
Something familiar.
You didn’t know why it took your breath away, or why your fingers tightened around your pen. You also must have stared too long, because he looked up from the project sheet, eyes wide just enough to show that he’d noticed you noticing.
“What?” he asked, awkward but steady, like a kid trying to navigate a conversation he didn’t practice for.
“I—” Your words fumbled, tripping over themselves. “Nothing.”
He studied you for a moment longer, one eyebrow tilting faintly, uncertain but patient. “…okay,” he had said finally, and returned to the assignment.
And just like that, the tether—the tiny spark—slipped loose.
You ducked your head and focused on your own work now, even as your pulse thrummed softly in your ears. He worked in quiet, sunlight pooling between you like a delicate frame, a barrier made of warmth and gold.
You told yourself you had imagined it.
You told yourself you wouldn’t think about it again.
But you did.
Long after the bell had rung.
Long after the day had moved on without noticing.
You did.