The first time I noticed Rayan, something went wrong.
Not dramatically.Not the kind of wrong people warn you about.
Just a quiet misalignment—like stepping onto a stair that isn't there.
The bell rang, sharp and sudden, slicing through the classroom noise. Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. People moved with purpose, urgency, direction. I stayed seated a second longer than necessary, eyes drifting without intent.
That was when I saw him.
He stood near the window, half-turned, sunlight cutting across his face like it had chosen him specifically. Not smiling. Not brooding. Just… there. As if he belonged to that exact moment more than anyone else did.
I looked away immediately.
That should've been the end of it.
It wasn't.
From that day on, he began appearing in the background of my life with unsettling consistency. In the hallway before morning assembly. Two rows ahead during exams. Across the courtyard during lunch, always surrounded by people yet strangely untouched by them.
I told myself it meant nothing.
I was good at that—dismissing things before they could become dangerous.
Rayan, on the other hand, noticed me much sooner than I realized.
I didn't know that then.
All I knew was the feeling—an awareness I hadn't invited. The sense of being observed, not in a threatening way, but with quiet curiosity. When I turned suddenly, I'd sometimes catch his gaze already there, steady, unreadable.
He never looked away first.
That unsettled me more than it should have.
We never spoke.
Not once.
But silence has its own language.
It began with small things. Him choosing the desk closest to mine during group rotations. His voice carrying clearly whenever the teacher called on him, cutting through the room in a way that made me pause mid-thought. The way he slowed when walking past me, just slightly, as if matching a rhythm only he could hear.
I told myself I was imagining it.
Until the rumors started.
"Did you hear?"
"I think he likes someone."
"They say it's you."
The words reached me through friends, through laughter disguised as curiosity. I denied it immediately. Too quickly.
"No," I said. "We don't even talk."
That was true.
But truth doesn't stop speculation. Silence feeds it.
By the second week, people were watching us. Waiting for confirmation. A glance too long. A seat taken too close. A reaction too delayed.
I started avoiding places where I knew he'd be.
Not because I disliked him—but because I couldn't control what people saw when we shared space.
Rayan didn't avoid me.
If anything, he became more visible.
One afternoon, during a free period, I caught him waiting outside my classroom. Not leaning. Not pretending to check his phone. Just standing there, hands in his pockets, eyes forward.
My heartbeat stumbled.
I walked past him without slowing.
He said nothing.
But that night, his presence followed me home. Not his face—his absence of words. The way he didn't chase or explain or retreat.
It felt deliberate.
The next day, everything changed.
I walked into class late, breathless, attention scattered. As I moved toward my seat, I felt it—that sudden stillness when a room shifts focus.
Rayan was standing.
The teacher was speaking to him, voice low but firm.
"…be careful how things look," she said. "This is a school, not a stage."
The implication hung heavy.
I froze.
Rayan didn't argue. Didn't deny. Didn't even look confused.
His eyes flicked to me.
Just once.
Something passed between us then—recognition, maybe. Or blame.
I sat down, heart pounding, realizing with cold clarity that something had begun without my consent.
At lunch, my friends crowded around me.
"What did you do?""Why was the teacher talking to him?""You should be careful."
Careful.
As if I had acted.
As if silence wasn't enough to accuse.
That afternoon, I found a folded note inside my notebook.
No name.
Just one line.
I didn't mean for this to become noise.
My fingers trembled.
It was his handwriting. I knew without knowing how.
I looked up.
Across the room, Rayan watched me—not nervously, not expectantly. Just… waiting.
For the first time, I understood something dangerous.
He wasn't confused.
He had been aware all along.
I never replied.
I told myself it was safer that way.
But safety has consequences.
By choosing silence, I didn't end the story.
I delayed it.
And in doing so, I unknowingly set the foundation for everything that would follow—the misunderstandings,the watching eyes,the distance that would one day feel irreversible.
At the time, I thought silence would protect me.
I didn't know it was the moment fate took note of my name.