I told myself I wouldn't stare.
I lasted eight minutes.
He sat in that window seat again. Same hoodie. Same silence. Same notebook open in front of him like a wall. He didn't look up once.
But I kept stealing glances.
Like a dumb cliché in a rom-com.
Except this wasn't a movie. I wasn't charming. And he wasn't noticing me.
At least… I didn't think so.
The professor passed around the day's worksheet. Of course, it was a partner assignment. Of course, everyone paired up like it was a speed-dating event. And of course, I was still standing there awkwardly holding the sheet when the only option left… was him.
I didn't even get to ask.
Professor just said, "You two, back row. Work together."
He didn't react.
Not even a twitch.
I walked over and sat beside him—not too close.
"Hi," I said.
He nodded. No words.
We started filling out the sheet. Definitions, one-liners, boring academic stuff. We passed it back and forth like we were negotiating peace. Still no conversation.
Halfway through, I caught him staring—not at me. At the flowers I'd doodled in the margin again.
"You like flowers or something?" I asked, trying to keep it casual.
He blinked slowly, as if coming back to Earth.
"Someone I knew used to draw them."
That's all he said.
But something shifted.
His voice wasn't cold. Just… distant. Like he was talking from a place far away.
We kept writing. His handwriting was small, neat, almost clinical. But there were tiny marks in the corner of the page—scratches or half-doodles, maybe from boredom. Or nerves.
I wanted to ask more.
About the someone.
About why he looked so tired all the time.
But I didn't.
Because you don't ask things like that unless you're invited in.
"I'm Ginny," I said finally.
A pause.
"August."
No smile. But something passed between us—a quiet understanding.
Not warmth. Not yet.
But not cold either.
We finished the sheet in silence.
When I stood to leave, I half-expected him to pack up and leave first, like always.
But he didn't.
Instead, he said:
"Your handwriting leans left."
I turned, surprised.
He was looking at the paper, not me.
"It means you think too much," he added.
Then he went back to writing in his notebook.
As if nothing had happened.
And yet… it had.
Something had.
Not much. Just a flicker.
But in a world full of maybes,
sometimes a flicker feels like the start of everything.
August's Notebook – Page 49
Her name is Ginny.
She asked nothing. Said everything.
Her pen drew flowers.
Mine drew walls.
I said something I didn't mean to say.
I never mean to say anything.
But she has this way of listening even when no one's speaking.
She asked about flowers.
I gave her a ghost.
Why did it feel like breathing again?
Ginny's Diary Entry #2
September 21
Dear not-a-diary,
We talked.
Well—sort of.
I said "Hi." He nodded.
I said my name. He said his.
And yet, it felt like more than any conversation I've had all week.
His name is August.
He wears it like a secret.