Edward
I've always been the quiet one. I don't talk unless I have to, and when I do, people usually mistake it for arrogance. I observe more than I participate, watching things unfold from a distance. It's a habit I picked up long ago and never learned to drop.
Thin, rectangular-framed glasses sit low on my nose most days, not for style but necessity, though they seem to add to the impression people already have of me—closed off, unreadable, uninterested. I don't bother correcting them. Letting people misunderstand you is easier than explaining yourself over and over again.
My eyes tend to look darker than they are, especially when I'm tired. That alone makes people uneasy. I don't smile often. When I do, it's brief, almost accidental.
I don't have a best friend. Not really. There's Jack, of course—but Jack is… different.
He's light where I'm heavy. Loud where I'm silent. And for reasons I've never understood, he likes being around me.
I hadn't noticed anyone else. Not once. Not until her.
I noticed her when I entered the room.
She was already there, seated by the window on the far left, sunlight brushing against her like it knew her. I didn't know her name then. I didn't even mean to look for her—but my eyes stopped anyway, as if something inside me had paused without permission. She wasn't trying to be seen. That was the first thing that struck me.
I took the seat behind her.
I realized too late that it had been a mistake.
She stiffened—not dramatically, not enough for anyone else to notice—but I saw it. The slight tension in her shoulders. The way her breathing changed, just barely. I hadn't startled her exactly, but I'd made her aware of me. Wary. Careful. I should've moved. But I didn't. Stupid me.
I stayed still instead, hands folded, eyes forward, pretending I wasn't watching the small, unconscious movements she made.
Her eyes stayed with me longer than they should have. Almond-shaped and dark brown, they held a quiet composure—neither sharp nor soft, but balanced in a way that felt deliberate. There was depth there, something unreadable, as if she was always thinking about more than she let on.
Her hair was what drew my gaze next. A soft honey-red shade, smooth with side bangs framing her face and a natural looseness to it not straight enough to fall flat and not wavy enough to be styled. The way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The way her fingers traced the edge of the desk when she was thinking was something enough to keep drawing my attention.
Her skin carried a muted warmth, resting somewhere between pale and sun-kissed, even-toned and natural. It wasn't striking on its own, but it softened her features, giving her a quiet glow that made her presence feel real, lived-in, human and beautiful under the sunlight. She looked… real. Grounded. Like someone who belonged in the space she occupied.
Later, when I saw her walking through the hallway, I estimated her height without thinking. Around five-four. It was an unconscious calculation, the kind my mind does when it's trying not to admit interest.
Jack sat nearby. He said very little that day. When he did speak, it was to me. Short sentences. Low energy. His usual brightness dulled at the edges, like he was holding something back. I didn't ask. Jack doesn't like being asked when he's tired.
"Long day," he muttered once.
"Mm," I replied. That was enough.
But my attention kept drifting back. I didn't understand it. I wasn't supposed to care. I didn't even know her name. And yet, something about her presence felt intrusive in the quiet order I'd built inside myself. Not unwelcome—just unsettling. Like a door I hadn't known existed had been opened slightly, letting in air I wasn't prepared to breathe.
I didn't talk to her. I didn't even try.
But I wanted to.
And that alone was enough to disturb me