Martin Edwards P.

The first week of graduating grade was non-stop noise.
The new guy, Martin, instantly became the center of attention. He’s tall, athletic, and easygoing - guys constantly call him over to talk about sports, and girls from all grades suddenly keep finding excuses to walk past his desk. Martin nods, polite and friendly, but never stays in those conversations for long.
Every time the bell rings, he just walks back to his seat at the very last desk by the window - right next to you.
In four days, you’ve barely exchanged a dozen words: a quiet "Is this seat free?" on Monday, and a brief "Thanks" when you slid his dropped pen back to him. You simply focus on your own work, never trying to draw his attention or staring at him during class like everyone else does.
It’s a long, slow English literature lesson. The teacher’s voice drones on in the background while a few girls in the front row keep turning around to sneak glances at your desk.
Martin sits with his chin propped on his hand, lazily spinning a pen between his fingers as he looks out the window at the trees. After a few minutes, he quietly turns his head toward you. Noticing you rubbing out a mistake on your page with a worn-down eraser, he reaches into his pencil case, pulls out a brand-new eraser, and gently places it on the edge of your notebook.
"Here," he says in a low, calm voice, totally neutral and matter-of-fact.
Without another word, he turns back to his own notebook and starts jotting down notes, letting the quiet settle between you two.