Xavier's POV
By the fourth day, people had started noticing her.
Not because she asked to be seen.
Because I made it impossible not to.
It started in history class.
Group discussion. Assigned seating. The usual ritual of people pretending they cared. I sat in my usual spot—back row, left side, where no one questioned my presence. Aylia was three rows ahead of me, near the aisle, posture straight, pen already in hand.
The teacher cleared his throat. "Today we'll be discussing postwar economic restructuring. I want perspectives, not summaries."
Groans followed. I didn't look at her.
I didn't need to.
"Aylia," I said calmly, before the teacher could call on anyone. "You were taking notes yesterday. What do you think?"
The room went still.
She turned slowly, eyes flicking toward me before shifting to the teacher.
"I—" She paused, then steadied. "I think economic recovery is less about policy and more about who gets excluded during reconstruction."
A few heads turned.
I leaned forward slightly. "Expand on that."
Her gaze sharpened. "Power consolidates faster than aid reaches people. The narrative focuses on rebuilding nations, not lives."
Silence.
The teacher blinked. Then smiled. "Exactly. That's the nuance I want."
I watched as attention recalibrated around her—assessment replacing dismissal. Curiosity where there'd been none before.
She glanced back at me once.
Not grateful.
Not angry.
Warned.
Later, in chemistry, I volunteered her again. Then again in English.
By lunch, people knew her name.
She found me by the lockers.
"You're doing this on purpose," she said quietly.
I shut my locker. "Doing what?"
"Putting me on display."
"That's dramatic."
"So is pretending you don't know exactly what you're doing."
Students passed behind her. She didn't raise her voice.
That restraint fascinated me.
"You're good," I said. "You should be heard."
"That's not your decision."
"Someone has to make it."
Her jaw tightened. "I didn't ask for your help."
"No," I agreed. "You didn't."
She walked away before I could respond.
That afternoon, group work.
I rearranged the seating under the pretense of efficiency.
"Zehir, Atlas—you two can lead," the teacher said, already convinced.
She shot me a look sharp enough to cut.
We sat across from each other.
"You enjoy this," she muttered.
"I enjoy results."
She exhaled slowly. "You don't get to decide how I exist here."
I leaned closer. "I'm deciding how others see you."
"And what if I don't want that?"
I smiled slightly. "Then you should've chosen a different school."
She went very still.
The color drained from her face so gradually it might've been my imagination—except it wasn't.
Her hand trembled as she adjusted her pen.
"You okay?" I asked.
She lifted her chin. "Fine."
It was a lie.
She finished the assignment anyway.
At the bell, she stood too fast.
I caught the sway this time. Clear. Undeniable.
She steadied herself against the desk before anyone else noticed.
Our eyes met.
Don't, she mouthed.
I leaned back.
Lesson learned.
Or so I told myself.
Aylia's POV
By the fourth day, I understood something important.
Xavier Atlas didn't want to humiliate me.
That would've been easier.
Humiliation was loud. Obvious. Something you could brace against.
What he was doing was quieter.
More precise.
History class was where it started.
I felt it before my name left his mouth—the shift in the room, the subtle tension that came when someone like him decided to speak. People listened when Xavier talked. Teachers especially.
"Aylia."
My pen froze.
I looked up slowly, heart already racing, because I knew better than to pretend I hadn't heard him.
He wasn't looking at the teacher.
He was looking at me.
I answered anyway. I didn't rush. I didn't stumble. I held my voice steady even as heat crawled up my spine. The words came easily—too easily—because I'd thought about them last night while the pain made sleep impossible.
When I finished, the room felt different.
Heavier.
Interested.
I hated that part.
I hated the way the teacher smiled at me like I'd just earned something. I hated the way a few students glanced back like they were recalibrating where I belonged.
And I hated that Xavier watched it happen like he'd expected every reaction.
Chemistry. English. Again.
My name.
Always my name.
By lunch, people were saying it in passing, like I'd always been there.
I found him by the lockers because my chest felt tight and I needed it to stop.
"You're doing this on purpose," I said quietly.
He didn't even look surprised.
"Putting me on display," I continued. "That's what this is."
"That's dramatic," he said.
"So is pretending you don't know exactly what you're doing."
He finally looked at me then, and there was something unsettling in his expression—not anger. Not amusement.
Focus.
"You're good," he said. "You should be heard."
My hands curled into fists at my sides.
"That's not your decision."
"Someone has to make it."
That was the moment I understood.
This wasn't about helping me.
It was about control.
"I didn't ask for your help," I said.
"No," he agreed calmly. "You didn't."
I walked away before my legs started shaking.
The afternoon made it worse.
Group work. Rearranged seating. His presence directly across from me like a challenge I hadn't agreed to accept.
"You enjoy this," I muttered.
"I enjoy results."
"You don't get to decide how I exist here."
"I'm deciding how others see you."
The words landed hard.
My vision blurred—not from fear, not exactly—but from the familiar pressure building behind my eyes. I inhaled slowly, careful not to let him see how much energy it took just to stay upright.
"And what if I don't want that?" I asked.
"Then you should've chosen a different school."
Something inside me went very still.
Not broken.
Contained.
I finished the assignment because I had to. Because stopping would mean explaining. Because weakness, once visible, never stayed private here.
When the bell rang, I stood too fast.
The world tilted.
I grabbed the desk before anyone noticed—before he noticed—
Too late.
I felt his eyes on me like weight.
Don't, I mouthed.
Don't ask. Don't comment. Don't turn this into something else I have to manage.
He leaned back.
That was almost worse.
I walked away with my head high, steps measured, body screaming for me to slow down.
By the time I reached the hallway, my side burned like a quiet warning.
Xavier Atlas thought he was teaching me something.
About visibility.
About power.
What he didn't understand yet—
Was that pressure worked both ways.
And if he kept pushing,
Something was going to give.