The late afternoon sun clung to the streets like honey, thick and golden, stretching their shadows long as they left the school grounds. Mara walked a step ahead, the confident one, tossing her dark braid over her shoulder as if leading the pack came naturally. Iris trailed closer to Gael's side, sneaking glances at him, her freckled cheeks warm with something between fascination and caution. Selene, with her quiet presence, matched her steps to his, though she didn't dare speak. Calla laughed too loud at something Vivienne said, their voices a melody that seemed to bounce off the cracked sidewalks. Naomi kept fiddling with her phone, but her eyes, sharp and observant, flicked toward Gael every so often, as if studying him was her real pastime. Gael walked in silence, his ocean-blue eyes fixed straight ahead. The rhythm of their chatter brushed against him like passing breezes—never quite touching, never quite sinking in. He noticed the pattern of their footsteps, the uneven spacing of their shadows, the way the warmth of their voices filled the air, but none of it stirred him.
To the girls, though, the silence was something magnetic. They spoke louder, laughed brighter, as if trying to coax a reaction out of him, the boy who seemed carved from stillness itself. The neighborhood streets grew narrower, lined with aging fences and blooming hedges, until finally Mara stopped in front of a two-story house with pale shutters. She turned back to the group, her lips curved into a smile that seemed to declare this was the start of something—something more than schoolwork, though she couldn't have named it yet. "Here we are," Mara said, keys jingling in her hand. "My place." The others nodded, falling into a hush, almost expectant. All of them glanced at Gael. And Gael, as always, gave them nothing.
Mara's keys jingled once more before she slid them into the lock. The front porch creaked beneath their weight, six girls buzzing with unspoken curiosity, and Gael standing among them like a statue that somehow followed along. The smell of old wood and blooming jasmine from the neighbor's garden clung to the air. Gael's gaze lingered on the chipped white paint of the shutters, the way a patch of ivy curled its way up the side of the house. Details. Shapes. Textures. His mind held onto those things because they were tangible, safe, easier to process than the soft warmth of laughter still spilling from Calla and Vivienne as they nudged each other over nothing at all.Iris stood closest to him again, her shoulder brushing lightly against his as they waited for Mara to push the door open. She felt the accidental contact like a spark, cheeks heating, though Gael himself barely registered it. He only noted the subtle shift of weight, the space between them narrowing, and then widened again when she instinctively pulled away.
Inside, the faint smell of cinnamon drifted out from the kitchen, wrapping around them like a hush. Mara's house was lived-in, warm with family photographs pinned along the hallway wall. Naomi slowed her steps there, eyes darting between the frames and Gael, wondering if he was comparing them to his own home. She didn't know he wasn't. For Gael, the faces in those pictures might as well have been strangers—they stirred nothing, not envy, not longing, not even recognition. They were just shapes of smiling mouths, frozen in time. The girls slipped off their shoes one by one, filling the small entryway with the shuffle of socks against tile. Selene bent to untie hers and stole another look at him. She tried to imagine what it was like to be him, to walk so calmly, so quietly, carrying an aura that made everyone else notice without him ever trying. And still, Gael said nothing. He followed them inside like a shadow that moved because it had to.
The living room was softly lit, sunlight pressing through the sheer curtains and scattering across the floor in pale rectangles. A couch sagged slightly in the middle, its cushions mismatched with patterned throw pillows, while a low wooden table sat at its center, crowded with magazines and a chipped ceramic bowl of marbles that looked untouched for years. The girls naturally spread themselves out—Calla and Vivienne claiming one side of the couch, Naomi and Selene sinking into the rug, cross-legged and easy, like they had done this a hundred times before. Mara disappeared briefly into the kitchen, calling back that she'd bring water, and Iris—hesitating—gestured toward the empty space on the couch beside her. Gael sat down, his movement careful, unhurried, like someone who had no urgency because urgency itself didn't register. The fabric of the cushion sighed beneath him, and Iris stiffened at the closeness, though he gave no reaction.
Their voices soon filled the space again, bouncing between small talk and the task at hand: what the project would look like, who would handle what. But no matter how the conversation shifted, their attention always drifted back toward him. Vivienne leaned her chin into her hand, watching openly, like she wasn't even pretending to be subtle anymore. Selene asked him a question about his classes—too casual, almost rehearsed—and when he gave a simple, soft-toned answer, the sound of his voice lingered in the air, making all of them pause. Gael didn't notice their surprise. He only noted the tick of the clock on the wall, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, and the way sunlight made dust particles float lazily between them. It was the girls who felt the pull of gravity here, circling around him without knowing why. For him, it was simply a room, a moment, a collection of details he could catalog and file away without weight.
Mara returned from the kitchen balancing a tray of mismatched glasses and a pitcher of water. She set it down with a small clatter, her eyes flicking to Gael as if to check whether the noise startled him. It didn't. He simply shifted his gaze to the condensation running down the pitcher's side, following the droplet's slow descent until it slipped off the glass edge and disappeared into the tray. "All right," Calla announced, pulling a notebook onto her lap, her voice a little too bright. "If we're going to get this done, we need to split responsibilities. Otherwise, we'll be here all night." "Which wouldn't be so bad," Vivienne murmured, half under her breath, though the others caught it and smothered their smiles. Selene stretched out on the rug and tapped her pen against her notebook. "Okay, so… who's good at research? We'll need sources before we can even start writing anything."
"I can do that," Naomi offered quickly, brushing her dark hair back as if volunteering gave her some spotlight. She glanced toward Gael, like she wanted him to notice, but his eyes remained fixed on the shifting beam of sunlight crawling up the far wall. "What about you, Gael?" Iris asked suddenly, the question breaking a silence that seemed longer than it was. Her tone was careful, but there was a tremor of curiosity beneath it. "Do you… want to write? Or maybe organize stuff? Whatever you prefer." His ocean-blue eyes moved to her, steady, calm, unreadable. "I can write," he said softly, his voice almost fragile in the quiet. The girls stilled at the sound of it again—that gentle, deliberate tone that felt out of place on someone who carried himself with such distance. It made Vivienne's lips part slightly, as though she might say something, but she stopped herself. "All right then," Calla said, her voice softer this time, like she was unconsciously matching his tone. "Gael's writing. Naomi's research. I'll help organize. Mara, Selene, Vivienne, Iris—we'll fill in the rest." They shifted into motion, papers rustling, laptops opening, pens scratching across pages. But despite the appearance of productivity, their focus kept breaking, drifting back to him. Even as Gael lowered his head and began writing neatly across the page, his concentration steady and uninterrupted, the air in the room shifted. For them, this wasn't just a project anymore. It was proximity to something they couldn't name. For him, it was lines of ink on paper, the faint squeak of a pen, the structure of a task being completed. Nothing more.
The sun had dipped low by the time the notebooks snapped shut and laptops dimmed, leaving only the soft hum of Mara's lamp filling the silence. Their work was neatly stacked on the coffee table—organized, outlined, and nearly complete. "Not bad," Calla said with a stretch, her braid slipping over her shoulder. "We might actually survive this project." Naomi laughed softly, then nudged Selene. "And we didn't even fight." Vivienne flopped back against the couch cushions. "Only because Gael kept writing like some kind of machine. Look at that—" she gestured toward his pages, inked in clean, elegant handwriting. "Better than half the teachers here." The girls' laughter wove together, light and easy. It should have filled the space, but to Gael, it was simply another layer of sound. He stacked the papers into a tidy pile, straightening the corners with meticulous precision.
"Gael," Iris asked hesitantly, her voice thinning the momentary calm, "can I ask you something?" His head lifted. A pause. "Yes." She exchanged a quick glance with Mara before continuing. "You… you don't really react much. Even when we joke or laugh. Is it… are you just quiet, or—?" The words hung, unfinished, until Selene quietly supplied: "It's because of his condition, isn't it?" The room hushed. Mara's eyes softened, searching Gael's face as though the answer lay hidden beneath his stillness. Gael blinked once. "Alexithymia," he said evenly, the word slow, like he had practiced it before. "I don't… feel things the way you do. Or if I do, I don't recognize them." The explanation landed heavy in the room. Calla's smile faltered. Naomi pressed her lips together, uncertain. Vivienne tilted her head, studying him with new curiosity. "So… you can't feel happy? Or sad?" Iris asked quietly. "I don't know what happy or sad feels like," he answered. His voice was neither cold nor defensive—it was simply truth.
The girls didn't know what to say at first. But slowly, something softened between them, like the invisible line separating him from the rest of the world had thinned just a little. They asked no more questions, but their eyes lingered on him differently now—not just with fascination, but with a quiet ache. Eventually, Mara clapped her hands lightly, breaking the heaviness. "All right, that's enough serious talk. We should probably head home before my mom thinks I'm hosting a sleepover." The girls laughed again, gathering their bags, slipping on jackets, one by one filtering toward the door. Each of them said a quick goodbye—some with small, nervous smiles, some with glances that lingered longer than necessary. Gael stood near the table, watching them leave, silent as ever. But when the last of them stepped outside, Mara lingered at the door. She hesitated, her hand on the frame, then turned back to him.
"Hey, Gael," she said softly, almost as if the words weren't meant for the others to hear. "Can I… talk to you for a minute? Alone?" The air shifted—gentle, expectant. And just like that, the day closed, leaving him and Mara in the quiet space of something about to begin.