Rain slid down the window like time trying to escape.
The classroom buzzed with noise—voices clashing, chairs scraping, laughter that didn't feel real. To them, it was just another ordinary morning.
To me, it was data.
I sat near the window. Always the same seat. Always observing.
I didn't belong to the noise—I watched it drift by like passing clouds.
They thought I was quiet. But I wasn't.
I was listening.
Not to words. Words lie.
I listened to the silence before and after them—the tension, the shifting eyes, the subtle cracks between what was said and what was meant.
People say one thing but feel another. And I could hear that feeling.
I never knew how. I just did.
I understood people best when they said nothing.
My fingers brushed the edge of the desk—cold, like a chill that didn't belong in a warm room.
Then I noticed it.
The shadows under the desks felt... strange.
They moved, slowly, subtly—like they were breathing. Like they were aware of me.
Across the room, Rijul laughed—too loud, too sharp. His body acted out the performance, but his eyes didn't match his voice.
His shadow didn't either.
And then—it slipped.
His shadow didn't follow his movement.
It slowed, hesitated, and then twitched—like it had a mind of its own.
No one else noticed.
But I did.
The shadow glided away from him, crawling across the floor like it was alive.
It stopped at the door—and I swear—it was trying to tell me something.
It didn't speak. But I felt it, clear as a voice inside my head:
You see me now.
I didn't react. I couldn't.
The bell rang.
Chairs scraped. Bags zipped.
Everyone left like nothing had happened.
But I stayed still.
Because something had changed.
I sat there long after the room emptied, staring ahead.
I took a deep breath.
I don't know who I really am yet.
But I know one thing:
I'm not like them.
And I think... something noticed that too.