The second morning felt almost the same as the first—warm sunlight slipping through the classroom windows, the low buzz of students chatting before class started. But for me, the air felt heavier, like every pair of eyes in the room followed me as I walked to my seat.
Whispers started the moment I stepped in.
"She's sitting next to Lawrence again…"
"Well, duh, it's assigned seating."
"But still—lucky her."
I tried to pretend I didn't hear any of it. I slipped into my chair, opened my notebook, and focused on reviewing yesterday's lessons.
Lawrence was already there, leaning back in his seat as usual. His black hair fell slightly over his eyes, and his arms were crossed. He didn't look at me, didn't even shift when I sat down.
For a moment, I stared at him, wondering if he'd at least glance in my direction. But he didn't move, his eyes fixed on the window like something out there was far more interesting than the entire classroom.
Finally, I cleared my throat quietly. "…Good morning."
He turned his head slightly, just enough to look at me. His dark eyes scanned me briefly before he said, in a flat tone, "Morning."
That was it.
He turned back to the window immediately.
I pressed my lips together, unsure why that tiny exchange irritated me. I shouldn't care—he didn't owe me anything. But still…
The first period dragged on, the ticking of the classroom clock louder than usual. Lawrence didn't write much in his notebook, only lazily scribbling a few things before resting his chin in his hand again.
When the bell finally rang for break, I glanced at him. He was still seated, fiddling with his pen.
I hesitated before speaking. "Do you… need to borrow a pen? Yours doesn't seem to work properly."
He looked at me then, raising an eyebrow.
"I don't need help," he said simply.
My cheeks warmed. "I wasn't trying to help, I just—"
"Look," he interrupted, his tone calm but firm, "you don't have to talk to me just because we sit together."
I blinked, slightly taken aback. "…Excuse me?"
He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Most people only talk to me because they feel like they have to. You don't need to."
For a moment, I didn't know what to say. Part of me wanted to argue, to tell him he was being rude, but instead I muttered, "I was just trying to be polite."
He didn't respond. He just turned back to the window, his face as unreadable as ever.
But something about the way he said it made me wonder—was he being rude… or honest?
The rest of the day passed quietly. Lawrence didn't speak to me again, and I didn't try to speak to him either.
But for some reason, I caught myself glancing at him when he wasn't looking.
He wasn't doing anything special—just staring out the window or tapping his pen lightly against the desk.
And yet, something about him felt familiar. Too familiar.
I shook the thought away. Maybe I was just imagining things.