Monday.
No whispers. No rumors. No class-wide theories about otters or jellyfish-shaped confessions.
Emma and I had said nothing. No social posts. No flirty glances. Just... normal.
And honestly?
That almost made it feel more real.
But the silence didn't last long—because this was St. Ivy, and quiet never stuck around for more than a few hours.
Mr. Brooks walked in with a stack of papers, a broken pen in one hand and coffee in the other.
"New week," he said, sighing like it hurt. "New schedule. New suffering."
Tyler leaned back in his seat. "What do you think the drama will be this week?"
"Hopefully not me," I muttered.
He grinned. "Come on, Rep. You're overdue."
It was second period, and the classroom had settled into its usual rhythm—barely held together by Mr. Brooks's caffeine-fueled attempts to teach literary symbolism.
Tyler was half-asleep in his seat. Emma was scribbling into her planner like she was mapping out a military campaign. I was pretending to follow along while flipping through the new club schedule she'd shoved onto my desk.
But my focus kept drifting sideways.
Amaya sat beside me.
She hadn't said much since this morning.
Her notebook was open, pencil tapping softly, eyes fixed on her page—but she wasn't writing. Not really.
And every now and then, I noticed her glancing up—not at the board, not at the window.
At Emma.
Not with jealousy.
Just with that quiet, soft gaze of hers. The one she gave to things she didn't quite understand.
And maybe… things that scared her just a little.
I leaned over, voice low.
"You, okay?"
She nodded almost immediately. "Mm-hm."
"You're quiet."
She gave a tiny smile. "I'm always quiet."
"Quieter than usual."
She hesitated.
Her pencil stopped tapping.
"…Did you have fun yesterday?" she asked softly, still not looking at me.
I blinked. "Yeah."
There was a pause. Barely a second. But she gave the smallest nod, like that answer had been more important than she let on.
She didn't ask more.
Didn't push. Didn't pry.
Just quietly accepted it. Trusted it.
Because that's who she was.
Later, at the club board, I caught her again—standing just a little to the side as I skimmed through today's list.
Emma had walked off after giving me a glare over the club rotation chart, and Amaya had drifted in like a breeze—barely noticeable to anyone else.
"Hey," I said, giving her a gentle smile.
She held out a small folded note. "Um… Home Ec club is asking if you can help with the baking prep on Thursday."
"You passing notes now?" I teased.
She tucked her hair behind her ear, smiling shyly. "Just for you."
My heart softened a little.
She wasn't fighting for attention.
She never did.
But the way her fingers lingered a little longer when I took the note?
That was Amaya's version of a war cry.
Back in class, she was sketching again. Her notebook open, pencil moving lightly.
A small fish.
Cute. Round. Probably something she saw in a tank once and remembered.
I leaned closer and whispered, "Is that me?"
She gave a soft giggle. "You were taller in real life."
"Was?"
"You're a fish now."
I grinned. "A handsome fish?"
She turned her eyes to me, soft and warm. "My favorite one."
And just like that, I remembered.
Emma might challenge me.
Sofia might tease me.
Yuki might watch me.
But Amaya?
Amaya… was home.
Everyone else was too busy talking, teasing, or sighing through class to notice.
But in the back corner of Room 1-A, someone was paying attention.
Yuki Dawson sat with her arms folded, chin resting lightly on her palm, eyes half-lidded as if bored. Her other hand idly tapped her tablet under the desk—not visible unless you were specifically looking.
She wasn't blinking often.
She wasn't staring at the board.
She was watching the room.
Every glance. Every subtle tension. Every shift of posture between Jay, Emma, and Amaya.
She saw Emma walk by with her usual crisp focus—but noticed the extra few seconds she spent looking toward Jay's seat.
She saw Amaya glance sideways during class, hands folded tighter than normal, her pencil tapping nervously.
She saw Jay smile at both of them.
Logged it.
She wasn't judging.
Just collecting.
No one noticed the way her screen flashed briefly—notes being saved, tagged, categorized.
No one except her.