Rafael POV
I step into 2B and the noise hits me before I even breathe.
People talking over each other, chairs screeching against the floor, someone laughing way too loud in the back.
Feels like the ceiling dropped overnight.
Or maybe it's just my head that came in heavy.
I tug my backpack strap tighter and go straight to the usual corner—back row, by the window.
Slide the bag down by my feet, drop into the chair, and try to fold myself small enough to disappear.
Sunlight slices through the glass and lands right at eye level.
I twist half to the side to dodge the glare.
No use.
She's already here.
Luísa.
Half the class orbits around her without realizing it.
She laughs loud—cuts clean through the chaos—right in the middle of a group near the center row.
Hands flying while she talks, hair loose, whole body telling the story I'm not hearing.
I don't need to hear it to know it's a story.
Her mouth doesn't stop.
Pipo's planted in the desk ahead of her, turned sideways, yelling louder than necessary.
"I swear, she should charge tickets for your rehearsal!"
He flings his arm up like he's onstage.
Everyone around loses it laughing—not sure if it's the joke or just because it's him.
Clara's there too, but you could miss her.
Leaning against the desk, elbow propped up, face turned toward them, body still.
Her eyebrow lifts maybe half a millimeter every time Pipo says something dumb.
Doesn't say a word.
Feels like she's taking notes silently.
Seat next to mine: still empty.
Good.
Less people equals easier breathing.
I pull out my notebook and flip to a random page.
Pen hovering mid-line.
Pretending I'm busy usually keeps people away.
Not sure today's gonna let me get away with it.
"Hey, Monteiro!"
Pipo's voice slices straight across the room.
"You rehearsing with the superstar today or gonna stay married to your little corner?"
My eyes roll automatically, head staying down.
Fingers grip the pen a little too tight.
"Drop dead, Pipo," I mutter.
Low enough for most people to miss.
But he hears it.
He always hears it.
He cackles, triumphant.
"Oho! He's mad! Write that down, Lu—he feels things!"
Her name in the air thickens everything.
I don't look up.
I'm not looking up.
But I hear her laugh—lighter, softer.
"Leave him alone, Pipo," she says.
And that "him" lands right between my shoulder blades.
Don't check if she's looking.
Don't check.
The door screeches open—someone should've fixed that like five months ago.
Half the noise in the room dies instantly.
Helena walks in.
My spine straightens on instinct.
Half the class copies.
The rest pretends they were already doing it.
She drops her bag on the desk, smooths her pale blazer sleeve, flashes that tiny nothing-much smile she always wears.
She doesn't need to speak loud—everyone listens anyway.
"Good morning, 2B."
A half-hearted chorus answers back—half awake, half annoyed at existing.
She gathers a stack of papers, tapping edges like she's got all day.
I know that routine.
Work incoming.
The air warms—not temperature, just tension.
Her gaze brushes over every desk one by one.
When it passes over me, it's quick but sharp enough to feel.
My fingers squeeze the pen harder.
"We're starting the term with something different."
She pauses—on purpose, obviously.
"Partner project."
Groans echo everywhere.
Someone thunks their forehead dramatically on their desk.
Pipo yells, "I was born for this!"
Luísa laughs.
Of course she does.
My chest deflates.
Partner means talking.
Partner means explaining why I don't want to go rehearse anywhere after school.
Helena goes on, unfazed.
"Any theme you want, but the focus is: unspoken words."
She writes it on the board, chalk squeaking in the way that makes everyone shift in their seats.
Great.
Can't even dodge silently.
"And I'll pick the pairs."
That kills the last of the jokes.
She picks—no negotiations, no escape.
My stomach sinks like I stepped off a stair that wasn't there.
Sweat gathers under my fingers.
Breathe.
Just don't land with someone who asks too many questions.
Names start rolling.
Front-row girls squeal and scoot together.
More scraping chairs.
Pipo is commentating like it's a soccer game lineup.
"And on offense, coming STRAIGHT from the back—"
More laughter.
I only hear fragments.
Most of it turns to static.
Seat beside me stays empty.
Good sign?
No idea what I want.
Clara gets paired.
Mateus too—cheers from Pipo.
Tables shuffle.
Whole class rearranging into neat little duos.
Except me.
The silence inside me gets louder.
That empty seat feels like a spotlight.
Names are thinning.
Her finger trails down the list.
"Rafael Monteiro…"
My name lands heavy.
Maybe no one reacts—but inside, it thuds like a dropped textbook.
"…and Luísa Andrade."
Time slips sideways.
Everything blurs—not gone, just far.
Pipo's laugh, chairs scraping, the old ceiling fan grinding.
But her name stays sharp, hitting dead center.
Heat floods my face immediately.
Stupid.
It's nothing.
Just a partner assignment.
Half the room has one.
Nothing special.
I don't move.
Don't look up.
Not doing it.
"Oooohhhh," Pipo drags it out like a siren.
"Look at THAT, Monteiro!"
Laughter flutters around the room—light, not aimed—but it sticks anyway.
Helena lifts one eyebrow, amused.
"Focus, people. This is school, not a soap opera."
The chair beside me scrapes forward.
Metal screaming.
My lungs lock.
Sweet shampoo smell hits first—fruity, warm—and then her backpack thumps against my desk.
"Excuse me," she says.
I look up—too fast to pretend I didn't.
She's right there kneeling to set her bag down, cheeks flushed from laughing, hair caught on the strap.
She frees it with quick fingers and flips it back over her shoulder.
That same shampoo scent fans out.
"So," she says, settling into the seat.
"Looks like we're partners."
The word lands heavier than it should.
I stare at the blank notebook.
"It's whatever," slips out before I can stop it—flat, sharp.
Tiny silence.
She huffs a laugh—not mean, more surprised.
"Wow. Exciting."
I keep my eyes down.
Pen digging into paper.
Still no words coming.
"I'll do my part," I say.
"You do yours. Done."
She doesn't answer right away.
I feel her looking.
Back of my neck prickles.
Finally:
"Okay. We'll figure it out at break, then."
Break.
Sounds childish coming from anyone else.
Coming from her, it somehow works.
Pipo screeches:
"Write it down, teach! Subtext couple already!"
More giggles.
I grind my teeth.
Helena sighs but doesn't bother fighting it.
I scrawl something.
The word "Introduction" skids downhill like it tripped.
Luísa leans in—too close, reading upside down.
"Unspoken words," she murmurs.
"Fits."
She's dangerously close to my shoulder.
I inch back.
"It's the theme," I mutter.
"I know."
Smile tugging her lips.
"Just funny you wrote it."
I glance at her.
Instant regret.
Her eyes are locked on mine—dark, clear, curious.
One heartbeat too long.
I look away.
"Why?"
She shrugs.
"No reason. Feels right."
Noise swells again as pairs start brainstorming, drawing, gossiping.
My head hits static.
Then:
"You work?"
Her voice slips in soft, like she isn't sure she should be asking.
"What?"
She nods toward my hand.
"There's always grease on your fingers."
I check—black smudge under the nail.
Forgot to scrub it off properly.
"My dad's shop," I say.
"Part-time."
"Cool."
And she sounds like she means it.
"Bet it's loud there, too."
I picture wrenches clanking, engines coughing awake, the radio drowning everything.
A corner smile escapes before I can kill it.
"Better kind of loud."
She gives a tiny laugh—smallest one I've heard from her all day.
"Fair."
Pipo leaps in again:
"HE SMILED, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!"
Helena threatens him with her eyes alone.
Mateus snorts.
Then, from nowhere, in his steady voice:
"It's not 'whatever.'"
I glance up—he's already ignoring me again.
Just dropped the line and vanished into his own conversation.
Luísa catches it too.
Looks from him to me, back again.
Like she's trying to piece together a puzzle no one gave her permission to solve.
Eventually Helena frees us to plan.
The class explodes into noise again.
I stay still.
Pen parked.
Blank page staring back.
Luísa turns her whole body toward me—cross-legged, leaning in, chin on hand.
"So, Mr. Whatever…"
Her smile's a mix of teasing and maybe something else.
"We're meeting for rehearsal, yeah?"
"What rehearsal?"
I ask, like I don't know.
"For the project," she grins.
"You can't wing unspoken words last minute."
"Yes, I can.
If we both do our part."
"And how do you know I'll do mine?"
She tilts her head.
Hair falling in waves.
"You barely know me."
"That's why I'm not expecting anything."
She studies me—just a second—then breathes a laugh.
"You know 'whatever' is what people say when they feel too much and don't wanna deal with it?"
Something drops in my gut.
I don't let it show.
"You get that off TikTok?"
"Intuition," she shrugs. "And theater."
She stands, grabs her bag, chair squeaking back.
"We'll talk at break.
Otherwise Pipo's gonna write our whole story for us."
Too late—he's narrating loudly already like a dramatic trailer voice.
Mateus smacks his arm, but keeps watching our row.
"Bye, Monteiro."
She adjusts her backpack, heading out.
"See you."
Three steps out, she glances over her shoulder.
"And try writing a straight line next time," she nods at my notebook.
"Yours looks like a heart monitor."
I stare at the crooked word.
She's not wrong.
From the middle of the room, Mateus' voice drifts over again:
"Trust me—it's the best thing that could've happened."
I don't answer.
Answering would mean admitting something.
Clara turns just long enough to look at Luísa settling up front, then at me.
Eyebrow ticks up again.
Another silent note added to her invisible list.
The classroom is still full of the same noise—laughs, chair scrapes, Pipo being Pipo—
but there's a new hum lodged somewhere behind my ribs.
I clamp down on it.
Press pen to paper.
Start writing anything just to drown it out.
"It's just a partner thing. I'll forget it tomorrow."
I repeat it in my head until it sounds almost true.
Then I keep writing, so I don't have to feel whatever else is trying to get through.