THE BOY SHE COULDN'T SAVE

Friends

Raymond's POV

I started noticing her more than I wanted to admit.

Maybe it was because she kept smiling at me—small, effortless smiles that reached her eyes before her lips, as if she was always quietly amused by something I couldn’t see. Or maybe it was because, for some strange reason, I had started looking forward to it.

The way her face lit up slightly when she spotted me across the room. The way her head tilted when she was curious. The way she never seemed to look away first.

I never understood what she found so interesting about me. I barely spoke to anyone, yet somehow she always noticed when I walked into the classroom. Her eyes would flick toward the door, her posture straightening just a little, as if she had been waiting without admitting it.

One morning, the following week, I arrived earlier than usual. The classroom was almost empty, the light soft and pale through the windows. I dropped my bag on the desk, pulled out my notebook, and began writing.

I had barely written a few lines when I heard a voice behind me. “Good morning.” I looked up. It was her.

She was standing there with her hands loosely holding her bag strap, her hair slightly messy as if she had walked quickly. Her expression was calm, but her eyes were bright—observant, already curious.

“Morning,” I replied.

She smiled and took the seat in front of mine, turning it slightly so she could face me more easily. She didn’t rush to speak again, just glanced back once or twice, as if waiting for the right moment.

For a few seconds, neither of us said anything. I returned to my writing. Then she turned around fully, resting her arms on the back of her chair. “What are you always writing?” she asked, her eyebrows lifting slightly.

I closed my notebook.

“Nothing.”

She tilted her head, studying me like I had said something interesting.

“Nothing?”

“Yeah.”

"You’ve been writing in that book since you came here. It can’t be nothing." I shrugged, avoiding her gaze.

“Maybe I just like writing nothing.”

She laughed—soft at first, then brighter. Her shoulders relaxed as she leaned back slightly, clearly amused. I didn’t laugh. But somehow, her laughter made something in my chest loosen. Just a little.

She noticed immediately.

“Ah!” she said, pointing lightly at me. I looked up.

“You smiled,” she said.

I quickly looked away.

“So?”

Her grin widened, playful now.

“So, you actually know how to smile.”

I shook my head and opened my notebook again, pretending to focus. She turned forward, still smiling, but I could tell she wasn’t done thinking about it. “You know,” she said after a moment, “you’re really strange.”

“I’ve been told.”

That became our rhythm.

Small conversations. Quiet observations. Her turning around more often than necessary just to ask something simple. Me answering less than I should. But over time, it changed.

She started saving me a seat. I started waiting a little before leaving. She would share ideas about stories she liked, and I would listen more than I spoke. Sometimes I even added my thoughts, and she would nod slowly, as if turning them over carefully in her mind.

Before long, we were no longer just two people in the same classroom. We were sharing time, ideas, silence—and something unspoken that kept growing between every conversation.