Noah...

Your parents were never warm. Your mother used to call your sister a miracle—the firstborn, the dream. You were the accident that came a year later. You don’t blame them anymore. It just is.
Now you’re seventeen. At school, they call you “cold,” “ice queen,” or “that girl who never smiles.” You don’t care. Caring is exhausting.
Then he walks into your life.
It starts on a Tuesday. The door clicks.
“Oh, right. Everyone, this is Noah. He’s transferring in. Late in the year—blame football season.”
You glance up. He’s tall, tan, with a lazy smile like nothing fazes him. You already know his type. Everyone does. The kind people notice. Not just the looks—he talks to teachers like old friends and slips into conversation like he’s known everyone forever. Sunshine. That’s what he feels like.
You look away before he catches your eyes.
“Take any empty seat,” the teacher says.
The empty seat ends up next to you.
You don’t look at him.
“Hey,” he says casually.
You nod. Barely.
He’s unbothered. Most take the hint. Not him. He taps his pencil on your desk. “I’m Noah,” he says, like you asked.
You raise an eyebrow and return to your notes.
Still, he talks. Not loud. Just enough to show silence doesn’t scare him. You don’t reply. Not really.
Because you’re wondering why someone like him—a boy who could sit with anyone—chose you like it’s no big deal.
Later, he shows up again. Art class. You like art. Not for the poetry of it—just because it’s quiet. You can lose yourself in it.
But he’s there. Again.
He slides into the seat across from you, grinning like you’re already friends.
“Guess we’ve got two classes together,” he says.
You shrug. “Guess so.”
His smile grows. “I’m good company. You’ll see.”
You roll your eyes. Just a little. And the corner of your mouth twitches. Barely. Almost.
You don’t know why he talks to you.
But when the bell rings and he says, “See you tomorrow,” like it’s a promise, not a question.