Amira Johnson always sat by the window.
Third row. Last seat. Always.
It wasn't assigned, but no one ever tried to sit there. Maybe it was the way she kept her head low, headphones in, notebook open, and pencil tapping softly—like she was writing to a rhythm only she could hear. Most students didn't notice her. Some forgot she was even in the class.
She didn't mind.
Not really.
The window gave her enough to look at when the teacher's voice turned into background noise. Trees, clouds, the back of the old football goalpost. And inside her notebook? That was her world. Poems, song lyrics, and thoughts she could never say out loud. It was safer that way.
Then came Jayden Cole.
Loud, confident, and the exact opposite of Amira. He had this way of walking into a room like he owned it—backpack slung over one shoulder, sneakers squeaking just enough to make everyone glance up. He wasn't the smartest in class, but he was clever in a different way—charming, funny, quick with comebacks.
And Amira? She didn't exist in his world.
Or at least, that's what she believed.
That Monday morning, she came into class early—as usual—pulled out her notebook, and started scribbling a line of poetry she'd dreamed about the night before.
"If silence had a name, would it be mine?"
She was halfway through her second verse when the classroom door clicked shut, and Mrs. Carter stepped in, holding a stack of plain notebooks.
"Alright, everyone," she said with a small smile. "New project time."
Groans echoed around the room. Projects meant effort. And effort, most students agreed, was unnecessary suffering.
"This one's different," she continued. "You'll each be given a journal. In this journal, you'll be exchanging letters with a classmate. No names. Just thoughts. Once a week, for twelve weeks. At the end, you'll find out who your partner was."
Jayden raised his hand, smirking. "What if we accidentally fall in love?"
Laughter broke out.
Mrs. Carter chuckled. "Well, Jayden, I guess that would be a very successful English project."
Amira's face flushed.
Fall in love? As if.
But something about the idea stayed with her.
Writing without being seen. Saying things you couldn't say out loud. A person getting to know you—not for how you looked, or sounded—but for the words you chose.
It sounded… kind of perfect.
Her finger itched to start