I started noticing things I probably shouldn't have.
Like how Aiden always waited before leaving class, just in case I needed help. Or how he remembered the little things—what music I liked, how I took my coffee, which subjects I hated.
And yet, he kept a wall around himself.
One evening, I found him on the school rooftop, sitting alone as the sun dipped low. I almost turned back—but he noticed me.
"You come here too?" he asked.
"Sometimes. It's quiet."
I sat beside him, leaving enough space between us to feel safe.
The sky slowly darkened, painted in shades of orange and purple. Neither of us spoke for a while.
"Hinata," he said suddenly, voice low. "Do you ever feel like you don't really belong anywhere?"
I glanced at him. "All the time."
He nodded, as if that answer meant more than I knew.
For a moment, I thought he'd say something else. Something important. But instead, he stood.
"I should go."
"Yeah," I replied. "Me too."
As we walked down the stairs, our hands brushed by accident.
Neither of us pulled away.
Neither of us held on.
But in that brief touch, I felt something quiet begin to grow—slow, uncertain, and fragile.
And I knew this wasn't just friendship anymore.
It was the start of something neither of us was ready to name.