It started the day she transferred in.
Her name was Elira. Pale skin like paper. A ribbon always tied tight around her neck. And those eyes — the eyes that never blinked when they met mine.
I was just a boy then. Quiet. Forgettable. The kind who did what he was told. But Elira noticed me. Or rather, she noticed something *in* me.
My eyes.
"They're too bright," she said on her second day, her voice barely louder than chalk. "They shouldn't belong to someone like you."
The class laughed. I didn't.