Elior told himself the smile meant nothing.
He repeated it the entire walk home, like a shield pressed tightly against his chest. People smiled every day. Smiles were polite. Automatic. Forgettable. Mira Vale's smile—soft, fleeting, and warm—was no different.
At least, that was what he wanted to believe.
But belief had never been his strength.
That night, he dreamed of hallways that never ended, doors that opened only to close again, and a voice calling his name—not loudly, not urgently, but gently, as though it expected him to answer. When he woke, his chest ached with a feeling he didn't recognize.
Anticipation.
---
The next morning, he arrived early to school.
Not intentionally. His body simply moved before his mind could stop it. He sat at his usual desk in the back, fingers tapping against the edge of the table as he stared at the door.
She arrived five minutes later.
Mira entered the room with the same quiet confidence, her bag slung over one shoulder, her hair pulled back loosely as though she hadn't fought with it that morning. She glanced around, orienting herself, then took her seat.
For a moment, Elior relaxed.
Then she turned.
Not by accident. Not out of curiosity. She turned directly toward him.
"Hi," she said.
The word landed between them like a dropped glass—fragile, startling, and impossible to ignore.
Elior froze.
His mind scrambled for the correct response. Hi was simple. Normal. Anyone could say hi. And yet, his throat tightened as though the word had too much weight for him to carry.
"…Hi," he finally managed.
Her smile widened, just slightly.
"I'm Mira."
He nodded, forgetting for a second that names were usually exchanged out loud. "I—uh. Elior."
She repeated it softly. "Elior."
Hearing his name spoken like that—carefully, as if it mattered—sent an unfamiliar warmth through him.
Before he could respond further, the teacher entered, and the moment passed. Mira turned back to face the front, and Elior sat there, stunned, staring at the back of her chair.
She hadn't forgotten him.
The realization unsettled him far more than it should have.
---
They didn't talk again during class.
But Elior noticed things.
He noticed how she took notes in neat, looping handwriting. How she tucked her hair behind her ear when concentrating. How she bit her lip slightly when thinking.
He noticed that she glanced back at him once more—not lingering, not obvious, but enough to make his heart stumble.
Don't imagine things, he warned himself.
But imagination had already begun its quiet rebellion.
---
At lunch, he escaped to the oak tree as usual, hoping routine would steady him. He sat cross-legged in the grass, unwrapping his food, when a shadow fell across him.
Elior looked up.
Mira stood there, her backpack hanging loosely from one hand.
"Is this spot taken?" she asked.
The question made no sense. The space was wide open. Empty. Always empty.
"No," he said quickly. "I mean—no, it's not taken."
She smiled and sat down anyway, settling beside him with an ease that made his chest tighten. Close enough that he could smell something faint and clean—soap, maybe, or sunshine.
He focused on his hands.
"I've seen you here every day," she said casually. "It's peaceful."
"It's quiet," he corrected.
She tilted her head, considering. "Sometimes that's better."
Silence followed—not awkward, not rushed. Elior wasn't used to silence shared with someone else. It usually pressed on him, demanding conversation he didn't know how to give.
But Mira didn't push.
She unwrapped her lunch slowly. "So… do you always sit alone, or am I interrupting a sacred tradition?"
The question was light, teasing. Kind.
He shrugged. "I like being alone."
It was half a truth. He liked not being rejected.
She didn't challenge him. Instead, she nodded. "I get that."
Something about her tone suggested she truly did.
They ate together quietly. Birds chirped overhead. Students laughed somewhere in the distance. For the first time in a long while, Elior didn't feel like he was waiting for the moment to end.
Then Mira spoke again.
"You don't talk much," she said.
His shoulders tensed. There it was—the observation that usually preceded judgment.
"I'm sorry," he said automatically.
Her brow furrowed. "Why are you apologizing?"
"I just—people usually find it awkward."
She studied him for a moment, her gaze thoughtful rather than critical. "I don't."
The words settled gently but deeply.
Elior looked at her, really looked at her, searching for sarcasm or pity. He found neither.
Just sincerity.
---
Over the next few days, a pattern formed.
Mira greeted him every morning. Sometimes with a smile. Sometimes with a quiet "Hey." She joined him at lunch without asking after the first time, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Elior never invited her.
He never asked her to stay.
She simply did.
And somehow, that made it both easier and more terrifying.
He learned small things about her. She had moved recently. She liked reading novels that made her cry. She hated loud parties but loved music. She spoke with her hands when she was excited.
She learned almost nothing about him.
Not because she didn't ask, but because he didn't know how to answer.
Every question felt like a trap. Favorite memories. Family. Dreams.
All the places where his life felt thin and empty.
So he gave vague responses. Shrugs. Half-smiles. Safe silence.
Mira didn't pressure him.
But she noticed.
---
One afternoon, as the sun dipped low and painted the school grounds in gold, Mira stopped walking beside him.
"Elior," she said gently.
He turned, heart already racing.
"You don't think very highly of yourself, do you?"
The question caught him off guard.
"I—what?"
She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "You always act like you're… temporary. Like you're waiting to disappear."
The truth sat heavy between them.
He looked away. "You don't know me."
She nodded. "You're right. But I'd like to."
The simplicity of the statement nearly undid him.
"I'm not…" He struggled. "I'm not someone worth knowing."
Mira's eyes softened, not with pity, but with quiet determination.
"I think you are," she said. "Even if you don't yet."
The words followed him home.
They followed him into the night.
They followed him into sleep.
And for the first time, Elior wondered—not if someone could love him—but what it would mean if they already were trying.
---