The next day, I make my way to school half-asleep.
Walk to the bus stop. Get on the bus. Get off the bus. Go into school. Go to class.
History. The slow death of my week.
I get there early enough to claim my usual seat in the second row — close enough to see the board, far enough to avoid being called on during one of Mr. Conrad's "Was the Revolution really necessary?" tangents.
A couple minutes later, Rhett Sanders walks in.
Hood down. Messy hair. Neutral expression. The kind of look that makes it seem like he just walked out of a moody drama, playing the hot love interest everyone roots for. He drops into the seat next to mine without a word, pulling out a battered notebook that looks like it's been through several wars.
I pull out my phone, pretending to check something urgent but really just refreshing the same three apps. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him glancing over.
"You've got ink on your hand," he says.
I blink, look down. A tiny smear of black pen sits near my thumb — a souvenir from scribbling Pre-Calc notes earlier. "Oh. Yeah." I rub at it with my sleeve, only to make it worse.
"You left-handed?" he asks, still looking at his notebook.
"Right. I just... get messy," I mutter. Which is a lie. I'm usually annoyingly neat. But right now, my brain's stuck on the fact that Rhett noticed something about me at all.
He hums in acknowledgment, tapping his pen lightly against the page.
It's nothing, I tell myself. Just an observation. Totally normal. People notice things all the time. It doesn't mean I'm interesting or—
"You do that thing in class," he says suddenly.
I glance over. "What thing?"
"You spin your pen when you're thinking."
Oh my God. Okay. Deep breath. It's just a comment. He's not staring at me in class. He's not paying special attention. He just... saw me do a thing.
"Yeah, well," I say, sounding casual and totally not desperate, "better than chewing it like half the guys in here."
He glances at me for a second — just long enough for my chest to do something stupid and fluttery.
"True," he says.
The projector whirs to life, the lecture begins, and I spend the rest of class pretending to take notes while my brain replays that brief look on a loop.
By the time the bell rings, I've talked myself down. He was just making small talk. Observations. Totally normal.
I'm not crushing on him.
...Probably.
YOU ARE READING
Intersecting Paths
RomanceShort Story :) Sixteen-year-old Luca Vance has a system: keep your grades high, your sarcasm sharp, and your secrets close. It's not that he's ashamed of being gay-it's just that Ridgeway High isn't exactly bursting with rainbow flags. So Luca coast...
