(Kaia Verene's POV)
She said, watch me.
I should've known she meant it.
I just didn't expect it to start the next day.
Or the next hour.
Or—apparently—every chance she gets.
I'm in my usual seat.
Back row. Window side. Safe distance from everything and everyone.
It's quiet. Or at least, quiet enough.
For a few minutes, things feel normal again. Predictable.
Controlled.
Then—
"Move."
I don't even look up.
"No."
A pause.
Then, "You didn't even check who it is."
"I don't need to."
I hear it—the soft exhale, like she's holding back a laugh.
Annoying.
I finally glance up.
And there she is.
Of course.
Elara Quinn, standing beside my desk like she belongs there.
Like this is routine.
Like I'm part of it.
"Good morning to you too," she says lightly.
"It was," I reply. "Before this."
She smiles.
Again.
Like I said something cute.
I hate that she does that.
"Sit somewhere else," I add, turning back to my notebook. "There are a lot of empty seats. Try one."
"I like this one."
"It's taken."
"By you."
"Exactly."
She hums, like she's considering something completely unnecessary.
Then—
she pulls the chair beside me.
And sits.
I stare at her.
"You're unbelievable."
"I get that a lot."
"I meant it negatively."
"I didn't."
God.
I look away, jaw tightening slightly. "You're going to regret this."
"Probably," she says. "But not for the reasons you think."
I don't respond.
Because what am I even supposed to say to that?
Silence settles between us.
Not uncomfortable.
Just… there.
I try to focus on my notes.
Try being the important word.
Because I can feel her.
Not touching. Not speaking.
Just… there.
Present.
And aware.
"Do you always sit here?" she asks after a while.
"Yes."
"Every day?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
I stop writing.
Slowly, I turn to her.
"Do you always ask this many questions?"
"Only when I'm interested."
There it is again.
That word.
I don't like it.
"You shouldn't be," I say flatly.
"Too late."
I exhale sharply, looking back down. "You're exhausting."
"And you're avoiding."
"I'm ignoring."
"Not very well."
My pen pauses.
Just for a second.
She notices.
Of course she does.
"You keep answering me," she adds softly.
"I'm correcting you."
"Same thing."
"No, it's not."
"It is when you don't walk away."
I glance at her again.
"You're the one who came here."
"And you didn't leave."
I—
I look away first.
Annoying.
"…You talk too much," I mutter.
"And you notice too much for someone who doesn't care."
I don't respond.
Because she's wrong.
Obviously.
Completely.
I go back to writing.
This time, I force myself to focus.
Line after line. Word after word.
Control.
Except—
"You missed something."
I pause.
"What?"
She leans slightly closer—not enough to touch, just enough to see my notes better.
"That part," she says, pointing. "You skipped a line."
I follow her finger.
She's right.
I hate that she's right.
"…I didn't ask for help."
"You didn't have to."
"I don't need it."
"Doesn't mean you can't have it."
I tighten my grip on the pen.
"You're really persistent."
"I prefer consistent."
"That's not better."
"It is to me."
I don't answer.
Again.
Because arguing with her feels like stepping into something I don't have full control over.
And I don't like that.
Not at all.
The class continues.
She doesn't leave.
Doesn't move.
Doesn't stop.
Small comments. Quiet observations. Just enough to be present without being overwhelming.
It should be annoying.
It is annoying.
But—
not enough to make me stand up and leave.
Which is… new.
The bell rings.
Relief.
I start packing my things immediately.
Fast. Efficient.
Done.
I stand—
"Kaia."
I freeze.
I don't turn around.
"What."
"See you tomorrow?"
No.
"No."
A small pause.
Then—
"Okay."
That was easy.
Too easy.
"…Okay?" I repeat, turning slightly.
She shrugs, standing up as well.
"Tomorrow, then."
"That's not how that works."
"It is now."
"It's not."
She smiles.
That same knowing smile.
Like she's already three steps ahead of a conversation I haven't agreed to be part of.
"See you, Kaia."
And then she walks away.
Again.
Like she didn't just—
I stop myself.
Annoyed.
For no reason.
Or maybe for one.
I sit back down.
Just for a second.
Just to breathe.
Just to—
reset.
My eyes drift to the window.
Same view.
Same light.
Same everything.
Except—
it doesn't feel the same.
Because now there's something else.
Something unfamiliar.
Something I don't like.
Something I don't understand.
Something that sounds a lot like—
"…tomorrow."
I click my pen shut.
Hard.
No.
Absolutely not.