A QUIET FIXATION

RAVEN'S POV: He doesn't see me. Not the way I see him. Matt Scott—quiet, untouchable, always tucked into the farthest corner of the library like a half-finished thought. His voice is low, his answers short. He reads the backs of books longer than he talks to people. I think that's what first made me stay longer than I should have. He didn’t want to be seen. Neither did I. But unlike him, I don't exist to disappear. I exist to know. I know he taps his pen three times before he writes anything. I know he smells like that faded leather of his worn backpack and whatever detergent he uses—sharp, cold, clean. I know he prefers pens over pencils. I know he wears his watch on the inside of his wrist. He doesn't speak to me. We have English together. I sit three rows behind. I don’t speak either. Not to him. But I think about him. Constantly. If someone cracked my mind open, his name would pour out first. Like ink. Like the first word in every journal I’ve ever written since the first time I saw him, seven months and thirteen days ago. I don’t think that’s weird. It’s just truth. MATT'S POV: Something feels off lately. Like I’m being followed, but not the obvious kind. More like a draft through a closed window—subtle, chilling, but definitely there. I keep seeing her. That girl. Raven, I think her name is. Black hair, pale skin, eyes like stormwater. Always in the background, always looking like she’s thinking about something she’ll never say out loud. We don’t talk. I don't think we've ever made eye contact for more than two seconds RAVEN'S POV: People think I’m quiet because I don’t have anything to say. They’re wrong. I just don’t say things that won’t be heard. My name is Raven Blackwood, and I guess the only thing people really know about me is that I’m tall, soft around the edges, and I keep to myself. They don’t know about the three half-finished notebooks under my bed filled with stories no one will read. Or that I draw full animations in silence, frame by frame, until my wrist cramps. Or that Ed Sheeran songs feel like chapters of my own life. They don’t know that I watch Matt Scott walk into school every morning in a hoodie too big for his frame, with a book tucked under his arm like it’s a weapon. They don’t know how often I imagine what it would feel like to be someone he notices. Ruth says I need to “put myself out there,” like I’m a brochure waiting to be unfolded. She’s my best friend. Blonde, loud, practically glowing when she walks into a room. Everyone knows her. They know her dad too—Mayor Hutchinson. She says she likes that I don’t care about popularity. I think she likes having one person who doesn’t ask her for anything. She doesn’t know I envy her. Or that I write stories about girls like her. Or about boys like Matt. Or about people like me—quiet, invisible, drowning. And she definitely doesn’t know my secret. The thing that presses against my ribs like a second heartbeat. The thing I can't tell anyone. MATT'S POV: Raven Blackwood. She’s in my Art and English classes, and she’s always the quietest person in the room. But not the kind of quiet that fades away. She lingers. She’s the kind of quiet that makes you feel like she knows things. Things you’d never say out loud. I don’t talk to her. But I notice her. How she always has earbuds in, like she’s trying to block out the world. How she wears black like a uniform but draws in color when she thinks no one’s looking. How she stares—not at people—but at moments. She’s different from the girls around here. Like Ruth, for example. I know Ruth because everyone knows Ruth. She’s sunshine and spotlight. She’s also my lab partner, and she talks enough for the both of us. She told me once that Raven’s been her best friend since elementary school. I didn’t know that. I don’t know a lot of things about people. I don’t really try to. I stay focused—grades, books, my little sister, June. June’s in fifth grade and already has sharper instincts than most adults I know. She has that cold, distant stare like she was born knowing the world would disappoint her. Maybe it did. After the accident, I came to live with my uncle. He’s fine. Works night shifts. Doesn’t ask much. I don’t mind being alone. Sometimes, I even prefer it. Except for when I see her. Then I wonder what it would be like not to be. RAVEN'S POV: Mom left when I was five. Packed a bag while I was asleep. I remember the way the hallway smelled the next morning—clean, empty, too quiet. Dad remarried two years later. Lisa is kind. She's patient. She asks if I’ve eaten, if I’ve slept, if I’m okay. But she’s not Mom. Still, I don't hate her. She’s a nurse. Works long shifts. Keeps her voice soft like she’s afraid she might scare the air away. I think I got that from her. My brothers are loud. They live in a world that wants to hear them. I don’t. I live in my headphones. In sketchbooks. In the empty margins of my life. And lately, I live in Matt. Not really. Just... mentally. In the stories I write, we talk. He looks at me like he does at his books—with curiosity, like I matter. In real life, we pass each other in the hall like strangers. But today in English, he dropped his pen. It rolled across the aisle. I picked it up. His fingers brushed mine when I handed it back. He said, “Thanks.” One word. But I’ve replayed it at least twenty-seven times since I got home. And every time, it feels like more.