She was the girl who now sat alone—quieter than before, her laughter long gone. After being detained, everything shifted. Her old friends moved on without her, and she walked through the school corridors like a faded memory—present, but overlooked. The classroom felt colder, the bell louder, her presence dimmer. She carried her insecurity like an invisible backpack, full of things she wished she could forget. But somewhere in the last row, a boy noticed. He was the classic backbencher—messy hair, untucked shirt, always pretending not to care. But he cared. Especially about her. He saw the way she looked out the window when she thought no one was watching, the way her pen paused mid-sentence like her thoughts got too loud. He watched, listened, felt. And in the margins of his rough notebook, he wrote her name a thousand times. Not to be noticed, not to impress, but to feel close in a way he didn’t know how to say aloud. He wasn’t good with words—at least not when it came to her. She made his heart stammer. Every time he thought of speaking, his courage betrayed him. So he stayed in the back, loving her quietly, loyally, endlessly. To her, he was just another student behind her. To him, she was everything ahead.