Invisible Threads

Something Stays (Yuri’s POV)

Group activities were never my favorite.

They always carried too much noise—voices overlapping, hands scrambling for materials, conversations moving too quickly for me to follow. I was fine with watching from the sidelines, contributing when necessary, never more than that.

At least, that was how it used to be.

This time, Aicy was beside me.

It wasn’t unusual—we’d been placed together in a team by chance, surrounded by two other classmates who were already deep in discussion. The project was simple enough: brainstorming ideas, drafting notes, structuring an assignment that wasn’t due for another week.

But somehow, I wasn’t focused on the work. I was focused on her.

She leaned in close as she spoke, gesturing with her hands, pulling the team into her thoughts with effortless confidence. She tapped her fingers against the desk in a slow rhythm, lost in concentration. And when she laughed—soft, unrestrained—I found myself listening a second too long.

I didn’t mean to notice everything.

At one point, she reached across the table, grabbing a stack of papers. Her sleeve brushed against my arm, and I felt it—not just the fabric, but the warmth beneath it, the slight press of her presence against mine.

I held my breath, but she didn’t seem to notice.

She turned her head slightly, eyes scanning the notes. Then—without thinking, without asking permission—she grabbed my pen and pulled my wrist toward her, writing something onto the margin of my notebook.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

“Like that,” she murmured, her voice close, casual. “Simpler.”

I swallowed, staring at the ink she had left behind. A simple suggestion, a quick revision. Nothing significant.

But then—her fingers lingered. Just for a moment.

Barely noticeable.

Just long enough for me to wonder if I imagined it.

She pulled away just as easily, returning to the project as if nothing had happened. But something had.

The rest of the day continued as normal. The assignment was completed, the classroom chatter faded, school came to an end.

But as I walked home, my mind refused to let go.

Her laugh.

Her touch.

The way she had leaned in, so effortlessly close.

It was nothing.

And yet, as I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, I realized—something stayed.

Something I wasn’t ready to name.