I want to believe someone can see me and not flinch.
It's a small want. A fragile one. The kind of want that curls up quietly in your chest and whispers maybe.
But every time someone meets my eyes and looks away too quickly, or smiles just a little too politely, the want wilts. People have always seen me as "the quiet girl," the strange one who doesn't talk much but always carries a sketchbook like it's her diary.
Until now.
I don't expect to see him again - Luca, the boy with the mangoes and the stillness that feels like calm instead of cold. But he walks into the art room today like he belongs there, like it's his second home, not just an elective. He doesn't pause when he sees me already seated in my usual spot by the windows.
He walks right over.
"Hey," he says, soft and certain.
He's wearing a navy cardigan over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins in his forearms. His pants are perfectly creased. His shoes are clean - not new, just immaculately maintained. His hair is a soft, intentional mess of dirty blond waves. He looks like he's stepped out of some boarding school catalog or a New England Christmas card.
Old money. You can smell it on him like leather and legacy.
But none of that matches his eyes. They're sharp, pale gray-blue like frozen glass - not cold, exactly, just clear. Too clear. Like they see everything. Maybe even me.
"Can I sit?" he asks.
The room is empty. He could sit anywhere. He could sit at the front table where the sunlight hits. But he's asking to sit next to me.
I nod before I can stop myself.
He pulls out the chair beside mine. Close enough to share space. Far enough not to press.
I focus on my sketchbook. Today's piece is unfinished - a bridge made of broken ribs. It sounds darker than it is. I was thinking about crossing. About how the body breaks so we can survive things. About how sometimes healing isn't putting it all back the same way.
"Is that a clavicle?" he asks, peering gently over my shoulder.
I freeze.
He grins. "Didn't mean to interrupt. Just... anatomy's kind of my thing."
"You study it?" I ask before I realize I've spoken.
His smile tilts. "Yeah. Pre-med track. Well, technically undecided, but my mom's already framed my future in her head, so..."
I look at him. Really look.
He doesn't flinch.
"I'm Senna," I say quietly.
"I know," he replies, not with arrogance, but with a kind of reverence.
I blink. "How?"
"I asked around." He shrugs. "Didn't want to just call you 'sketchbook girl' in my head."
My cheeks flush.
There's a beat of silence. The good kind.
"I like your drawings," he says, voice low. "They make me feel like I'm reading someone's soul."
I swallow. Hard. "It's the only way I know how to talk."
He nods like that makes perfect sense.
We don't say much after that. Just sit in the warmth pooling from the window, sharing silence like it's something sacred. I draw. He reads. We orbit.
I glance at his book's cover - some thick, aged classic I've never touched. Probably something everyone in his family has read since age eight. I wonder what it's like to grow up like that - inside a dynasty. Inside expectations so big you forget what your own dreams even look like.
I grew up different.
Comfortable, yes. We weren't poor. We weren't rich either. My parents work hard. They love harder. But the best part of my family lives in the bodies of two boys with sticky fingers and superhero capes: Bear and Auggie. My younger brothers.
They call me Senny. They tackle me like puppies every afternoon and scream when I make pancakes. They draw mustaches on my sketchbook covers and cry when I leave for school. They're the only people who've ever made me feel invincible.
I'd die to protect them. No question.
Sometimes I think they're the only reason I'm still here.
I flip to a blank page and start drawing their faces from memory. Bear with his round cheeks and that mischievous dimple. Auggie with his wild curls and too-big eyes. I capture them fast, messy, raw.
Luca glances over again. "Your brothers?"
I nod. "They're the best parts of me."
He studies the sketch. "They look like trouble."
I smirk. "They are."
"I like that," he says.
And for the first time in a long time, I laugh. Not a giggle. Not a stifled exhale. A real laugh. Quick and sharp and surprising. It startles even me.
Luca looks pleased. Like he's found something rare.
The bell rings. Neither of us moves for a second. Then, slowly, we pack up. Shoulder our bags. Step back into the hallway.
"Tomorrow?" he asks.
I nod again.
He walks backward down the hallway before turning. "Bring more anatomy."
I don't say it out loud, but I'm already thinking about what I'll draw.
Someone saw me.
And they didn't flinch.