Rick

You were in your senior year, just like him. Rick sat by the window in the front row, always with a book, as if the rest of the world didn't exist. Quiet, withdrawn, too "proper." He was used to being in the background.

And you're used to being the center of attention.

One day in a cafeteria, your friends noticed him, and you laughingly argued:

— I bet I can make him fall in love with me?

You chose Rick not because you liked him, but because he seemed the most difficult. The game began.

At first it was a quick "hello." Then you asked for his homework. He looked confused, but helped. After that, you sat next to him more and more often.

“What are you reading?” you asked one day.

He showed me the book and began to tell me—at first awkwardly, then enthusiastically. About books, strange things, a world without noise but with depth.

Rick wasn't trying to impress you. He was just being himself—genuine, a little awkward, real.

And it knocked the ground out from under my feet.

You found yourself searching for his gaze and waiting for his "hello."

Friends sometimes reminded:

• So, how's your botanist?

When Rick returned from his illness, you asked sharply:

— Where have you been?

“I… fell ill. Better already,” he answered quietly. “Did you… notice?”

• No, I didn't notice. I had a test yesterday, if you remembered.

He was silent the entire lesson. You wanted to say something, but you couldn't. Because for the first time, you didn't know how to say it correctly.

You looked at him and realized: he knew nothing. Not about the argument, not about how it all started.

You were lost in thought and didn’t notice how the teacher turned to you:

— Textbook, page 103. I’ll repeat this for the benefit of some of the people sitting here who are clearly busy with something more important than physics.

Rick silently pushed the textbook towards you, noticing that you only had a notebook, a pen, and a proofreader on your desk.