(Jaz's Point of View)
The desks were arranged in the usual grid — four columns, five rows, each one a small island with its own empire of pens, scratched initials, and ego.
They stared like I was a commercial break in the middle of their boring routine. Not the hero. Not the villain. Just some glitch in their perfect picture.
I scanned the room with practiced disinterest.
One second per face.
Some looked away quickly — guilt? shyness? I couldn't care less.
A few girls shared smirks like they already didn't like me.
Good. I wasn't here to be liked.
And then...
him.
Back row.
Window side.
Leaning back in his chair like he owned the air around him.
Black hoodie under the uniform blazer, sleeves rolled just enough to show a leather band on his wrist. One earbud still in. Eyes on me. Not gawking. Not impressed. Just... observing.
Like he'd seen storms before and wasn't afraid of this one.
Our eyes met.
His brow lifted — not in surprise, but like a silent: So you're the one they've been talking about.
Yes. Want a punch?
I looked away first.
Not because I felt small.
But because I didn't want to give him a single second more of my attention.
Not yet.
"Take a seat," the teacher said, waving vaguely at the middle row.
I moved toward the empty desk without asking who it belonged to. If someone had a problem, they could say it. I was in no mood to play politics with desk arrangements.
The desk next to mine belonged to a girl with glassy brown eyes and braids. She gave me a half-smile — not quite friendly, not quite fake either. I didn't return it. Not yet.
Because I knew how this worked.
Day one is a performance.
Everyone's watching.
Not for who you are — but how you'll break.
As the teacher droned on about some syllabus or schedule, I stared at my notebook, fingers playing with the corner of the page. My thoughts were elsewhere.
Not home. That place didn't feel like mine anymore.
Not Section R. That chapter was done, burned, and buried.
Just here.
This class.
These strangers.
That boy.
He was still watching me.
Sometimes through the reflection of his phone screen, sometimes directly. Like he was waiting for me to speak. React. Trip. Slip. Flinch.
I didn't give him that luxury.
But something in his eyes — something I couldn't name — lingered even when I wasn't looking. That quiet confidence. The kind that wasn't loud or flashy. The kind that came from knowing exactly who he was.
And I hated it.
Because deep down... I wanted that, too.