Elior began to dread the mornings.
Not because of school or the noise or the endless hours of pretending he was fine—but because of the moment right before he saw Mira.
That brief space where he didn't yet know whether she would still choose to sit beside him.
It terrified him how much that mattered.
He arrived early again, dropping into his seat and staring at the empty chair two rows ahead. His fingers curled against his notebook, pressing hard enough to crease the paper. The classroom slowly filled, voices rising and blending together.
Then she walked in.
Mira didn't look around this time. She didn't search the room. She walked straight to her seat, set down her bag, and turned to smile at him.
Relief washed through him so strongly it almost hurt.
This is dangerous, he thought. You're letting this matter too much.
But he smiled back anyway.
---
Their conversations grew—carefully, unevenly.
Mira learned to wait through his pauses. Elior learned that silence didn't always mean rejection. Sometimes it meant listening. Sometimes it meant safety.
They talked about books during lunch, their knees brushing lightly as they sat beneath the oak tree. Mira spoke about stories that made her feel seen. Elior listened, fascinated by how openly she shared pieces of herself.
"You don't talk about yourself much," she said one afternoon.
He stared at the grass. "There's not much to tell."
"I doubt that," she replied softly.
He didn't answer.
She didn't push.
---
The first crack came when someone else noticed them.
"Since when do you hang out with her?"
The question came from Jonah, a classmate Elior barely knew. It was said casually, but his tone carried curiosity—and something sharper.
Elior stiffened. "We're just friends."
Jonah raised an eyebrow. "Right. Well, she's kind of out of your league."
The words were familiar. Comfortable in their cruelty.
Elior nodded, because agreement was easier than defense.
Later, when Mira found him beneath the oak tree, he was quieter than usual.
She sensed it immediately.
"Did I do something wrong?" she asked.
The question cut deeper than Jonah's words.
"No," he said too quickly. "It's not you."
"Then what is it?"
He hesitated, fear tangling with honesty.
"People will talk," he said. "They'll assume things."
"And?" she prompted.
"And they'll be right," he whispered. "I don't belong next to you."
Mira's expression didn't harden. It softened.
"Elior," she said gently, "I chose to sit next to you. No one forced me."
"That doesn't mean it makes sense."
"Maybe I don't need it to."
Her calm certainty unsettled him.
---
That night, he replayed Jonah's words over and over.
Out of your league.
He had built his life around staying in his lane. Around knowing his place. Mira didn't fit into that system. She disrupted it simply by existing beside him.
She'll realize it eventually, he thought. Everyone does.
---
The following week, something changed.
Mira laughed more with him. She teased him gently, drawing out rare smiles. She shared stories that made her eyes shine. And without meaning to, Elior began to look forward—to plan—to hope.
He hated himself for it.
Hope had never been kind to him.
---
The moment it went too far came unexpectedly.
They were sitting beneath the oak tree when Mira leaned back on her hands, gazing up at the sky.
"Do you ever wish," she said, "that you could be someone else?"
Elior swallowed. "All the time."
She turned to him, studying his face. "I don't."
The words struck him.
"You don't want to change anything?" he asked.
"Not the important parts."
"What if the important parts are wrong?" he asked quietly.
She reached out then, her fingers brushing his wrist.
The touch was light.
Intentional.
Electric.
"I don't think you're wrong," she said. "I think you're afraid."
He pulled his hand away before he could stop himself.
Her eyes widened, confusion flickering across her face.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly, standing. "I have to go."
He didn't wait for her response.
---
He walked home faster than usual, heart pounding.
The moment replayed in his mind—the warmth of her fingers, the sincerity in her voice, the dangerous closeness.
He wanted it.
That was the problem.
Wanting meant risking.
Risking meant losing.
And Elior had never survived loss very well.
---
The next day, he avoided her.
He sat farther back in class. Left early for lunch. Chose solitude over the ache of proximity.
Mira noticed.
Of course she did.
She found him after school, standing by the lockers.
"Did I cross a line?" she asked.
He shook his head. "No."
"Then why are you pushing me away?"
The honesty in her voice made it hard to breathe.
"Because," he said finally, "people like me don't get happy endings."
She stared at him, something unreadable in her eyes.
"Maybe you don't," she said quietly. "But that doesn't mean you don't deserve one."
He didn't answer.
Because part of him wanted to believe her.
And that part terrified him most of all.
---