When the Noise Fades

Naomi “Mimi” Hale’s POV Mason Reed is a problem. Not in the dangerous way— in the everyone knows his name and the teachers pretend they don’t way. He kicks the back of chairs like it’s punctuation. Talks during lectures like it’s a sport. Smiles like he already knows how this ends and he’s bored waiting for the rest of us to catch up. And he sits two desks away from me. “Reed,” Mr. Callahan snaps, not even looking up from the board. “If I hear your voice again, I will move you.” Mason leans back in his chair. “You’d miss me.” A few people laugh. Someone throws a pen at him. I keep writing. We share three classes. In all of them, Mason is loud on purpose. He asks questions he knows the answer to just to derail things. He flirts with danger like it’s a hobby. He’s not stupid—he just refuses to behave like someone who needs permission. I don’t exist to him. Which is impressive, honestly. I’m hard to miss if you’re actually paying attention. But Mason doesn’t pay attention. He dominates. English is the first time he’s forced to acknowledge me. “Hale and Reed,” Mr. Evans says. Mason looks up, already smirking. “Which Hale?” There are two. I lift my hand slightly. “Me.” His eyes flick over me—quick, lazy, assessing. Not curious. Not interested. “Oh,” he says. “Cool.” That’s it. “Slides?” he adds immediately, already turning away. I nod. “Sure.” I don’t argue. Not because I can’t. Because I want to see how long it takes him to notice. At lunch, he’s sprawled across a table like he owns the place. Roman’s nearby. Jessie’s there too—quiet, watching more than talking. Mason doesn’t notice Cassie yet. I do. I also notice the way Mason’s jokes sharpen when Roman goes quiet. The way he fills silence like it makes him uncomfortable. He needs noise. That’s important. Chemistry lab is where he screws up. On purpose. He leans too far over the table, elbow knocking toward a beaker. I catch it before it spills. “Careful,” I say, flat and unbothered. He looks at me—actually looks this time. “…Damn,” he mutters. “You got reflexes.” “I pay attention,” I say. He grins. “Yeah? You should try not watching me so hard.” The flirt is automatic. Unthinking. I don’t blush. Don’t snap back. I just meet his eyes. “You’re loud enough without help.” That does it. Not a lot. Just enough. His smile sharpens—not offended, not amused. Interested. The bell rings. He grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “Hey,” he says, falling into step beside me. “Mimi, right?” “Naomi,” I correct. “Mimi works too.” He hums. “You don’t talk much.” “I talk when it matters.” He laughs. “I talk when I’m bored.” “Yeah,” I say. “I noticed.” He smirks. “We’ll get along.” I don’t answer. Because I already know— Mason Reed doesn’t notice people who don’t orbit him. Not at first. But once he does? He doesn’t let go. ----- The art room smells like charcoal and dust and old paint. It’s the only place in the school that doesn’t feel like it’s demanding something from me. I slip inside during free period, nod once at Ms. Alvarez, and head for my usual spot by the window. The afternoon light slants in just right here—soft enough to blur edges, bright enough to expose mistakes. I like mistakes. They tell the truth. I pull my sketchbook from my bag and flip to a clean page, fingers already itching. Pencil first. Always pencil. Charcoal later if the feeling settles in my chest the right way. I start with shapes. Loose lines. No plan. Faces come easily. Not portraits—impressions. The slope of a jaw. The tension in shoulders. The kind of posture that says don’t come closer even when the mouth is smiling. I don’t realize who it’s becoming until I’m halfway done. I don’t stop. Someone laughs near the door. Loud. Familiar. I don’t look up right away, but my shoulders tense anyway. Mason Reed. “Dude, you cannot be serious,” he says. “You skipped class for this?” Roman’s voice follows—lower, steadier. “I didn’t skip. I had study hall.” “Same thing,” Mason scoffs. Jessie’s there too. I can tell without seeing him. He moves quieter than the other two. Like he’s always tracking the room instead of filling it. I keep drawing. If Mason notices me, he doesn’t say anything. At first. Minutes pass. I’m shading now, fingers smudged graphite-dark. The room hums softly—pencils scratching, paintbrushes tapping against jars. Calm. Controlled. Then I feel it. That prickle between my shoulder blades. Being watched. I don’t look up. Mason’s attention is… heavy. Not in a threatening way. In a curious one. Like he’s not sure why he’s still standing there. “You draw?” he asks eventually. I answer without glancing up. “Sometimes.” “That’s not an answer.” “It’s the only one you’re getting.” I hear Roman snort. Jessie doesn’t laugh. Mason moves closer. I hear the chair scrape as he drags it back and sits across from me—too close, intentionally invading space. I still don’t look up. “What is it?” he asks. “A mess,” I say. He leans forward. I feel the shift of air, the heat of him. “Doesn’t look like it.” Finally, I tilt the sketchbook just enough for him to see. His mouth goes quiet. That’s new. It’s not a perfect drawing. The lines are rough. The shading unfinished. But the posture is unmistakable—slouched confidence, coiled energy, a smile that looks like it knows too much. Mason. Not the one he performs. The one underneath. “That’s me,” he says slowly. “Yes.” “You draw people without asking?” “I draw what I notice.” He studies it longer than I expect. Roman clears his throat. “You gonna tell her it’s good or just stare at it all day?” Mason doesn’t look away. “Shut up.” Jessie finally speaks. “You see yourself in it?” Mason’s jaw tightens slightly. “Yeah,” he admits. “That’s the problem.” I close the sketchbook gently. “That’s usually where I stop,” I say. “Before it gets uncomfortable.” Mason leans back, arms crossing, eyes still on me now—not the page. “You don’t get uncomfortable easy,” he says. “I get uncomfortable,” I correct. “I just don’t perform it.” That earns a sharp grin. “I like that.” “I didn’t ask you to.” Roman laughs outright this time. Jessie just watches—quiet, assessing, like he’s filing something away for later. Mason stands, stretching like nothing just shifted. “Hey, Mimi,” he says casually, like this didn’t just matter. “You ever think about drawing something louder?” I finally meet his eyes. “No,” I say calmly. “I draw what stays.” Something settles behind his gaze. Not interest. Recognition. “Yeah,” he says. “We’ll see.” He turns back to Roman and Jessie, already joking again, already filling the space with noise. But when they head for the door, Mason glances back once. Just once. And this time— He sees me.