Chapter 1:

Something About Her Feels Like Spring

A World Without You

I sat in the back corner of the classroom like always — near the window, not because the view was any good, but because it gave me something to stare at when I didn’t want to deal with the world.

Same seat. Same silence.

Different day, but it felt exactly the same as the last hundred.

The teacher hadn’t arrived yet, but the classroom was already filled with noise — chairs scraping, groups chatting, footsteps coming in and out. Somewhere nearby, a boy was loudly complaining about a quiz. Someone else was laughing like nothing in life had ever gone wrong for them.

I just kept my head down.

I didn’t even notice her walk in.

Not until she paused. Then pulled the chair beside mine.

A quiet creak of metal legs against the floor.

I glanced over, not expecting much. Probably someone grabbing the wrong seat before homeroom started. People usually didn’t sit near me.

But she sat down like she meant to.

She pulled out her notebook, unzipped a small pencil case, then turned her head slightly toward me — not all the way, just enough to say, Yeah, I know you’re looking.

“Hey,” she said casually, like we’d already spoken before.

She didn’t say my name — I doubt she even knew it.

But she smiled, then looked forward again, like that was enough.

It was strange.

Most people didn’t talk to me. Teachers only did when they had to. Classmates usually avoided my part of the room unless they needed a chair to borrow.

I didn’t respond right away. Not because I was trying to be rude — I just didn’t know what to say.

It had been so long since someone looked me in the eye and said anything.

“…Hey,” I finally mumbled back. It came out weaker than I wanted, but it was the best I could manage.

She nodded like she heard me, even though she’d already turned her attention to the front of the class.

A few minutes passed in silence, but it felt different now. Like there was a crack in the usual cold air — just enough to feel warmer, lighter.

I tried not to look at her again, but I caught glimpses from the corner of my eye.

Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail. She had a bandaid on one of her fingers. Her shoes weren’t tied evenly.

She looked like the kind of person who lived freely — without worrying too much about what others thought.

Someone real.

She wasn’t trying to impress anyone, and somehow, that made her stand out more than anyone in the room.

The bell rang, and our homeroom teacher walked in, grumbling about how coffee prices were going up. The class settled. Books opened. People groaned. Time started dragging again.

But she stayed there.

Right next to me.

And for some reason, that was enough to keep me from sinking.

Second period came and went.

She stayed in the seat beside me like it was hers from the start.

No one said anything about it.

No one asked why.

I wondered if she even noticed how weird that was.

Most people in class had their “spots.” The kind of invisible claim that gets made early in the school year — sit there once, and it’s yours until graduation.

But she just… sat beside me. Like it didn’t matter.

During third period, I caught her doodling in the margins of her notebook. Nothing detailed — just little flowers, clouds, and weird round animals with smiley faces. Her notes weren’t even complete. She skipped half of what the teacher was saying but still nodded like she understood.

I don’t know why, but it made me want to laugh a little.

Just a small smile. I hid it behind my hand.

It was the first time I smiled in weeks.

She caught me, though.

At least I think she did.

At the end of class, she leaned over and whispered, “That math teacher’s voice could put caffeine to sleep.”

Then she grinned.

That time, I did laugh. Just a breath, but it was real.

And when she walked off to lunch with a few other girls, I noticed something weird.

I didn’t feel as heavy anymore.

Lunch came and I stayed at my desk like usual.

I pulled out a convenience store sandwich from my bag — the kind that tasted like wet paper and loneliness — and stared at it like I wasn’t sure I even wanted to bother eating.

Then a shadow crossed my desk.

Her again.

She stood there holding her tray. “Mind if I sit?”

I blinked.

“Here?” I asked, like an idiot.

She raised an eyebrow. “No, on the roof. Obviously here.”

She didn’t wait for my answer. She pulled the chair out and sat beside me like she’d done it a hundred times.

“Hope you’re okay with curry bread and lemon soda,” she said, unwrapping her food. “Because I forgot I hate this combo.”

She took a bite anyway and made a face like she regretted all her life choices.

I stared at her.

“What?” she asked, catching me.

“Nothing,” I muttered, looking away.

But something about this felt unreal.

Like maybe I’d fallen asleep in class and was dreaming all of it.

We didn’t talk much that lunch. Just a few comments about how boring school was, or how bad the vending machine juice tasted.

Nothing deep. Nothing dramatic.

But it was the most human interaction I’d had in months.

And when the bell rang again, I caught myself hoping she’d sit beside me in the next class, too.

The final bell rang, and the classroom emptied faster than usual — notebooks slammed shut, bags thrown over shoulders, chairs screeching as everyone raced for the door like school was a burning building.

I stayed back, packing slowly. No reason to rush.

There was nothing waiting for me at home anyway.

She was already gone by the time I looked up.

Not a word this time.

Not even a glance.

I didn’t expect her to say anything. We weren’t friends.

We were just… classmates, maybe.

With one strange day between us.

Still, part of me kind of wanted to say something.

Even if it was just “See you tomorrow.”

But I didn’t.

I walked the usual route home — through the quiet back streets, past the same cracked sidewalks, the same drooping electrical lines, the same old vending machines humming like they were tired too.

That’s when I heard the sound —

A basketball bouncing against concrete.

Sharp. Repetitive. Clean.

I turned my head.

There, across the street from the local convenience store, was a rusted half-court — the kind with a crooked rim and a fence that leaned slightly to one side. I’d passed it a hundred times without giving it much thought.

But today, someone was there.

Her.

She stood alone on the court in her school uniform, jacket tied around her waist, casually tossing the ball up and chasing it after each rebound.

She missed more than she made, but didn’t seem to care.

Every time it bounced off the rim, she’d laugh to herself and try again.

No audience. No friends watching.

Just her — messing around, like the whole world didn’t need to be perfect to feel okay.

She looked… different out there.

Not the cheerful girl who sat beside me.

Not a classmate.

Just a person.

Alive in her own little world.

I stood there longer than I meant to, pretending to check my phone.

She hadn’t noticed me. Or maybe she had and just didn’t care.

Eventually, I turned and kept walking.

Didn’t say anything. Didn’t wave.

But I think I smiled again.

Home was quiet.

Too quiet.

I dropped my bag by the door and slipped out of my shoes, the silence of the apartment pressing in like always.

Mom was working late again. I didn’t even bother checking.

I grabbed a bottle of water, skipped dinner, and flopped onto my bed fully clothed — not tired, just empty.

The kind of empty that doesn’t go away with sleep.

The ceiling stared back at me, blank and yellow from the old lightbulb above. I let my arm hang over the edge of the bed, eyes half-lidded, mind drifting.

That girl.

I didn’t even know her name.

She just… showed up.

Sat beside me.

Talked to me like I wasn’t invisible.

And then played basketball like the world wasn’t heavy.

Why?

Why did she sit next to me?

Why did she talk like it was normal?

Why did I want her to do it again?

I turned onto my side and pulled my hoodie over my face, like it could hide the thoughts crawling in.

But they didn’t go away.