Eyes on You

Chapter:6 -His pov

I was still sitting in the second row. I was still surrounded by the "Second Row Mafia," laughing at the same inside jokes and leaning back in my chair with that practiced, effortless slouch. To any outsider—to the teacher, to the guys, even to Ritika—I probably looked exactly the same as I did on the first day of school. But inside, my internal compass had completely shifted its north.

Every time I performed my "routine" of leaning back to check the back of the room, my eyes would hit a snag. It wasn't even a choice anymore. It was like my gaze had developed a mind of its own, and its only destination was the girl in the middle row.

I’d catch her looking at me, and instead of the casual, low-stakes hum I felt when looking at Ritika, I’d get this sharp, electric jolt that made my ears ring. I started doing things that were completely off-brand for me. I started actually listening to the teacher's French pronunciation just so I wouldn't look like an i***t if she happened to be listening. I was performing for an audience of one, and the pressure was starting to make me sweat.

Then came the Tuesday of the worksheets.

The teacher finished scrawling a mess of verbs on the whiteboard and picked up a heavy, crisp stack of papers. "Distribute these, please," she said, her eyes landing directly on me.

Normally, I loved this. It was the ultimate "cool guy" move—an excuse to stand up, stretch my legs, and wander the aisles while making quiet, snarky comments to the guys in the back. I took the stack from her, feeling the weight of the paper, and started down the first aisle.

I was fine for the first row. I handed out papers with a practiced flick of my wrist, nodding to my friends. But as I turned the corner to the middle aisle, my heart started doing this weird, irregular thumping against my ribs. It felt like a drum being played out of time. I could feel her presence before I even reached her desk. I was suddenly hyper-aware of everything: the sound of my shoes on the floor, the way my sleeves were rolled up, the exact rhythm of my breathing.

I stopped next to her desk. My pulse was hammering in my throat.

I didn't mean to look at her. I told myself to just drop the paper, keep my eyes on the stack, and move on. Keep the image intact. But as I peeled two worksheets off the top, some invisible force pulled my head down. I looked at her.

She was looking straight up at me. Her eyes were wide, dark, and completely focused. For a heartbeat, the entire room—the scratching of pens, the hum of the air conditioner, the whispers of my friends—just dissolved into white noise. She looked breathless. And honestly? I felt like I was drowning.

I held out the papers. My hand was actually trembling. Me. The guy who was supposed to be the most unbothered person in the ninth grade was shaking because he had to hand a piece of paper to a girl.

As she reached up to take them, the edge of the paper slipped. For a fraction of a second, the side of my index finger brushed lightly against hers.

It wasn't just a touch; it was a literal short circuit. A spark of heat shot up my arm, and for a second, I forgot how to function. I forgot that I had twenty more papers in my hand. I forgot that I was in a classroom. I forgot that my friends were sitting just a few feet away, probably wondering why I was hovering like a statue.

"Here," I managed to mumble. My voice came out lower than usual, slightly raspy, as if I’d forgotten how to form actual words.

"Thanks," she whispered back. Her voice was so quiet I felt it more than I heard it.

I held her gaze for one more fleeting second—a second that felt way too long, way too heavy, and entirely too meaningful—before I forced my leaden feet to move. I turned on my heel, my heart racing so fast it felt like it was going to burst through my uniform.

As I walked toward the next desk, I could feel the heat radiating off my face. I knew my ears were glowing red.

I sat back down in my chair a minute later, staring at the whiteboard until the letters blurred. I didn't hear a single word for the rest of the period. All I could feel was the lingering ghost of her skin against mine.

I realized then that I wasn't just "noticing" her anymore. I was in deep. And the most terrifying part was that I had absolutely no idea if she felt the spark, or if she just thought I was the clumsy guy who couldn't hand out papers correctly. It was too embarrassing to look at her again.