The next day, Kairo stopped pretending.
He watched Ayan — in class, in the hall, anywhere he could without drawing attention. The more he looked, the less he understood. Ayan was too composed, too contained, like someone holding the edges of something that would shatter if touched.
During lunch, he cornered one of the council assistants. "What do you know about Ayan?"
The boy stammered, eyes wide. "He… doesn't talk much. Keeps to himself. Why?"
Kairo only smiled, a quiet, unreadable curve of his lips. "Just curious."
Later that day, he found himself outside the library where Ayan usually studied. Through the glass, he saw him — head bent over a book, the golden afternoon light cutting across his face.
He looked almost peaceful. Almost human.
Kairo leaned against the doorframe, watching too long, until Ayan looked up.
Their eyes met — a second too long to be casual.
Ayan's expression didn't change.
But his pen paused.
Kairo didn't move, didn't look away.
He just smiled, slow and deliberate.
Then turned, disappearing down the hall.
Ayan exhaled only when the sound of his footsteps faded.
He'd spent years hiding what he was.
And now, for the first time, he wasn't sure if he could keep doing it.
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