"Alright, class," said Miss Coraline, clapping her hands twice, the sound cutting through the morning buzz like a pebble in still water. "Your project this term will be done in pairs. You'll research a myth or legend connected to the sea—something from any culture, any time period. Be creative."
She smiled, but it was the kind of smile teachers gave right before chaos.
And yeah. Chaos exploded.
"Hope, be my partner!"
"No fair, I want to be her partner!"
"Hope! I literally made a fan edit of you—"
"I'll share my notes if you pick me!"
It was like watching a school of fish all darting in one direction. Same shine. Same desperation.
I smiled the kind of smile I always did—soft, practiced, perfect for photos and interviews and fake interviews that ended up on social media anyway. The Starling smile. Polished. Controlled.
But inside, I was rolling my eyes so hard they could've fallen out.
Miss Coraline clapped again, louder this time. "Settle down! I mean it—if you can't decide, I'll assign partners."
Groans. Mutters. Whispers.
I scanned the room, pretending to consider my options. But I already knew.
And that's when I saw him.
At the far end of the classroom. Hoodie up. Earbuds in. Head bent over a sketchbook, like the rest of the world didn't exist.
Xylan Thorne.
Even his name sounded like it didn't belong here—like it had been pulled from somewhere older.
Wilder.
He wasn't pretending to care. Not about me, not about the whispers or the projects or the way everyone else kept sneaking glances in my direction. Everyone else was orbiting, but he was his own planet—silent, distant, perfectly content in his own gravity.
His pencil kept moving, fast, sure. He didn't even glance up.
And maybe that's what caught me.
Because for once, someone didn't look at me like I was something special. He looked at his page like that was what mattered.
"I'll work with Xylan," I said.
The words slipped out like they'd been waiting.
The entire room froze.
Someone dropped a pen.
The sound echoed.
Mrs. Coraline blinked. "Xylan? Are you sure, Miss Starling?"
Every eye was on me.
Perfect.
"Positive," I said, standing, gathering my notebook in one calm motion. "He's the only one not auditioning to be my partner."
A couple of people laughed nervously. Someone whispered, "Did she just—?"
But I didn't care. I could feel Xylan's attention shift—slow, careful—like a tide turning.
He looked up.
His eyes weren't just eyes.
They were a storm.
Green, grey, blue—colors that shouldn't exist together, but did. Calm and violent at the same time. Like the sea when it's pretending to behave.
For a second, I forgot to breathe.
He didn't smile. Didn't frown.
Just shut his sketchbook quietly and said, "Okay."
That was all.
But it was enough.
The way he said it—steady, even, but with that quiet rough edge—made the air feel heavier somehow. Like there was something unsaid beneath the words.
I walked toward the empty seat beside him, ignoring the stares. My sneakers made almost no sound on the tiled floor, but it felt like every step echoed anyway.
As I sat down, I caught a glimpse of his sketchbook. He'd tucked it under his arm, but not fast enough.
What I thought were waves weren't waves at all.
It was a girl.
Standing on a cliff.
Facing the sea.
Her hair like fire.
And written beneath it, in dark graphite strokes, a single word:
Hope.
My breath caught.
Coincidence. It had to be.
But the pendant under my shirt—the one I had since I was a baby, the one I couldn't remember taking off—suddenly felt cold against my skin. Ice cold. Like it had been dunked in the ocean.
I pressed my hand to it through the fabric, trying to ignore the chill.
Mrs. Lib clapped again, snapping the room back into motion. "Good! Partners decided. You'll have three weeks. Choose your myths wisely. Presentations will be in front of the class, so make them count."
The rest of the class groaned. A few people were still whispering, casting glances toward me and Xylan like we were a plot twist they hadn't seen coming.
I opened my notebook, pretending to write something. Anything. But my hand hovered above the page.
I could feel him beside me. Not looking. Not speaking. Just… there.
Solid. Quiet. Like a rock in the tide.
I risked a glance sideways.
He was sketching again. Fast. Focused. His hood still up, earbuds still in. Like, none of this mattered. Like, I didn't matter.
And somehow, that made me want to know everything.
Who was he?
Why did he draw me?
Why did his eyes feel like they'd seen something I hadn't?
I cleared my throat. "So… any ideas for the project?"
He didn't answer.
I waited.
Still nothing.
I leaned slightly closer. "You know this is a partner project, right?"
He paused his pencil. Looked at me. Just for a second.
Then pulled out one earbud.
"I know," he said.
His voice was low. Rough. Like driftwood scraping stone.
I blinked. "Okay. Cool. Just checking."
He nodded once. Then went back to sketching.
I sat back, unsure whether to be annoyed or intrigued.
Probably both.
The bell rang, and students began packing up. Chairs scraped. Backpacks zipped. The usual chaos.
But I stayed still.
So did he.
As the room emptied, I stood slowly. He didn't move.
"See you tomorrow, partner," I said, letting the word hang in the air like a dare.
He didn't look up.
But I could've sworn—just for a second—his pencil paused.
And that was enough.