Mornings always feel softer beside her.
The world's still half-asleep, and she moves through it like she's afraid to wake it up.
She ties her hair with practiced precision, each motion steady, unhurried. Her shoes barely scuff against the floor as she walks through the gate. You fall into step beside her — not because you plan to, but because it just happens that way.
She doesn't mind. She never seems to mind.
Her voice, when she greets you, is quiet but certain. It carries the kind of calm that makes the morning feel organized, even if the rest of the day won't be.
You talk about simple things — the weather, the math quiz, how the cafeteria milk tastes slightly off again. She listens, smiles faintly, and hums in agreement. She never says much, but somehow, her silence fills the space instead of emptying it.
In class, she sits by the window. You're close enough to hear the scratch of her pen across the page — neat, measured, patient.
When sunlight filters through the glass, it settles gently on her desk, catching the small motion of her hand as she turns the page.
Sometimes, when the teacher explains something complicated, she pauses, tilts her head slightly, and frowns in thought.
You find yourself watching that small pause more than the lesson itself.
Not because you're fascinated — just because there's something real in it.
Something unguarded.
At lunch, you share a table with a few others. She laughs at a joke someone makes, her shoulders shaking just a little. It's quiet, but it's there — the sound of her trying.
She looks out the window when the sky clouds over.
You don't ask why.
Everyone knows she likes the rain, though no one knows the reason. She watches it the way some people watch the sea — with a kind of longing that doesn't ask to be understood.
After classes, you stay behind with her to help gather worksheets. She stacks them carefully, aligning every edge before tying the bundle with string. Her focus makes the room feel calm.
When she hands you half the stack, your fingers brush for a moment. Hers are cold — not from fear, not from nerves. Just cold, like someone who's spent a little too long learning how to hold on.
"Thanks," she says.
"Sure," you answer.
The simplicity feels right.
You walk part of the way home together. The streets are damp, the air heavy with the smell of rain that hasn't yet fallen. She keeps her umbrella half-open, though the clouds haven't decided what to do.
At the corner, she slows down. The wind lifts her hair, the air still thick with the memory of rain.
You almost say her name — but something about the moment tells you not to.
So you just let her go, her figure fading into the gray evening.
Survival, you realize, doesn't always look like strength.
Sometimes, it just looks like walking home alone —
and doing it again tomorrow.