FATED SEATS

CHAPTER 3

ARA'S POV

Alan was suddenly there, settled into the seat beside me, his proximity sending a shiver of unease down my spine. I stiffened, determined to ignore him. I focused my gaze on the textbook in front of me, pretending to be engrossed in the complex diagrams, anything to avoid acknowledging his presence.

But Alan, of course, wouldn't let me off that easily. He leaned closer, and a low chuckle rumbled from his chest. "Hey, Ara," he said, his voice a teasing whisper. "Did you hear about the mathematician who's afraid of negative numbers?"

I stubbornly kept my eyes glued to the page, pretending not to hear him. But the silence stretched, thick with anticipation. Finally, I couldn't resist. I glanced up, a reluctant flicker of curiosity in my eyes.

That's when he delivered the punchline, a corny, utterly predictable joke that elicited a groan from the rest of the class. I couldn't help but smile, a small, involuntary twitch of my lips. But as I looked at Alan, the amusement quickly faded, replaced by a simmering irritation.

His eyes were wide, sparkling with that familiar, mischievous glint. The same eyes that had once captivated me, filled with warmth and understanding. Now, they just felt like a calculated invasion of my personal space, a reminder of a past I desperately wanted to forget.

"I'm just kidding," he said, his grin widening. But his words felt hollow, a flimsy excuse for the intrusion. It wasn't just a joke; it was Alan testing the waters, probing my defenses, reminding me of a connection.

After the class , I headed home to rest.

The fluorescent light in my small bedroom flickered, casting long, dancing shadows on the wall. I stared at the stack of textbooks and notes piled on my desk, the looming assignments mocking my inability to focus. Grade 11, STEM strand, was supposed to be my chance to shine. Instead, I felt like I was drowning.

The pressure to maintain my honor-student status, a title I'd clung to since elementary school, was crushing me. My parents never bragged to me about having, using my achievements as bragging rights to their friends and relatives. But this year, it felt different. The workload was heavier, the competition fiercer, and the fear of failure was a constant gnawing in my gut.

A sob escaped my lips, and I buried my face in my hands. I can't do this, I thought, the words echoing in my mind like a broken record. I'm not good enough. I'll never be good enough.

The image of my classmates, their faces bright with confidence and understanding, flashed before my eyes. I felt like an outsider, a fraud pretending to belong in their world.

Then, another memory intruded: Alan's teasing grin, his persistent attempts to make me look at him. I don't like your eyes. They're distracting. Why did I say that? It was true, though. They were too kind, too knowing, like they could see right through me, past the carefully constructed facade of quiet competence.