It was the beginning of my high school life, and while there were many students like me, each one was distinct in their own way. As for me, I had short hair, a boyish cut, and didn't really fit the stereotypical "girly" image, even though I was a girl. I preferred oversized clothes—nothing too revealing.

It was early in the morning when I woke up to prepare for my first day of high school. My mom was around, but we barely spoke. It was the kind of silence that had become routine in our house. I left home, stood at the bus stop, and waited for the bus to arrive.

When I reached school, I headed to my class, and the teacher arrived and quickly left. The class went on without much excitement. During break time, everyone gathered in groups, chatting and gossiping, but I stayed alone. It wasn't that I minded; I just wasn’t interested in socializing. There was one classroom no one ever used, so I started to take refuge there. It was a quiet place where I could nap or just escape the noise, though I could still hear distant laughter and chatter echoing down the hallway.

The quiet of the unused classroom wrapped around me like a blanket. The low hum of distant voices from the hallways barely reached me, but I was used to it by now. I sat cross-legged on the floor near the window, my hoodie pulled tight, staring out at the schoolyard. The silence was a relief, a chance to be away from the noise and crowds.

The door opened, and the sound of footsteps interrupted my thoughts. I didn’t look up. I didn’t need to. I could already tell who it was—Mark and his usual group of friends. They came in like they owned the place, their laughter and chatter filling the otherwise still air. I didn’t care. I had no reason to.

Mark dropped his bag on one of the desks with a thud. “Man, I’m starving,” he muttered, stretching his arms over his head. “Lunch can’t come soon enough.”

Jason laughed, a sharp, irritating sound. “We still got a few minutes, man. Chill.”

I kept my gaze fixed out the window, ignoring the voices that were slowly growing louder. They were talking about the same things they always did: lunch, sports, teachers. It wasn’t interesting, so I tuned it out. They weren’t talking to me, and I wasn’t going to make myself part of it.

“I don’t know, I’m thinking of hitting the arcade after school,” Jason said, a casual statement that barely registered in my mind. “What do you guys think?”

Lizzy, the girl in their group, let out a sarcastic laugh. “The arcade? You guys are such nerds. Come on, there’s going to be a soccer game. I heard a bunch of people are meeting up at the field.”

“Soccer?” Mark scoffed. “Since when do you care about soccer?”

“Since it’s more fun than watching you guys do nothing.” Lizzy smirked.

Their conversation continued, drifting from one topic to the next, but I wasn’t listening. It was all just background noise. I didn’t care about their plans, their jokes, or their endless chatter.

I kept my head down, eyes still locked on the view outside. They weren’t part of my world, and I wasn’t about to let myself get involved in theirs.

After a few more moments of idle banter, I heard the shuffle of feet moving toward the door.

“Alright, I’m out,” Mark said. “See you guys after lunch.”

Lizzy followed. “We’ll be in the courtyard, don’t be late.”

The door clicked shut behind them, and the room fell back into the quiet I preferred.

I exhaled slowly, not having moved an inch during their entire exchange. Nothing had changed. They were gone, and I was alone again—exactly how I liked it.

When the bell rang for the afternoon classes, I followed the same routine: listening, pretending to engage, and keeping to myself.

Finally, the bell rang again—this time signaling the end of the day. The rush of students flooding out of the classrooms was a familiar sound, but it didn’t concern me. I didn’t hurry to pack up. No one was waiting for me outside, and I didn’t care about the crowds filling the hallways. I took my time, slipping my things into my bag, my movements slow and deliberate.

The hallway was already quieter as I stepped out, the majority of students already on their way home or lingering in groups, chatting away. I passed by them without a second thought, my mind already on the walk home. The sound of my footsteps echoed off the walls as I made my way toward the exit.

The cold air hit me as I stepped outside, the sky streaked with the orange and pink of the setting sun. It was the kind of moment that could feel peaceful if I allowed it to. But I didn’t think about it. I just walked, one foot in front of the other, heading home where the silence would be waiting for me. It was familiar. It was enough.

The day was over, and tomorrow would be the same.

As soon as I stepped through the door, the familiar silence greeted me. It wasn’t the kind of silence that felt empty—it was just a routine I had grown accustomed to. No voices, no noise. Just the quiet hum of the house, waiting for me to settle in.

I didn’t bother checking if anyone was home. There usually wasn’t. My mom worked late most days, and we didn’t have much to say to each other when she was around anyway.

I made my way to my room, the soft creak of the floorboards underfoot the only sound. The door clicked shut behind me, and I pulled off my school clothes—still stiff from the day—and changed into something more comfortable. A faded band t-shirt and loose jeans. Nothing fancy. Just the kind of clothes I could disappear into.

I tossed my school uniform onto the bed and glanced around the room, a space that felt more like a refuge than a place to live. The walls were bare, save for a few posters I had put up without much thought. The bed was always made, but nothing else was ever really in order.

I grabbed my jacket from the chair by the window and shrugged it on. The last thing I wanted was to stay cooped up here, even if I didn't have any particular destination in mind. I needed something to eat—something that didn’t come from a school cafeteria or the leftovers in the fridge. A quick stop at the convenience store would do.

The cool air hit me as I stepped outside. The walk to the store was short, but it was a kind of space where I could just clear my mind, away from everything. I didn’t mind it.

I picked out a few snacks—nothing special, just enough to get me through the night. The cashier rang up my items, his hands quick and practiced. As I fumbled for my wallet, I noticed something from the corner of my eye.

A hand.

It was large—much bigger than mine, with thick fingers and veins that looked like they had been carved into the skin. I couldn’t help but notice how muscular it was, the way it moved with purpose as he adjusted the change. I shifted my gaze upward, slowly, my eyes tracing the arm to his sleeve, then further up to the shoulder, the firm line of his jaw...

Before I could really process it, our eyes met.

I froze, caught in that brief, inexplicable moment. His gaze was steady, but mine immediately faltered. I felt something stir in my chest, a slight unease, like I had been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to. Without thinking, I turned my eyes quickly to the side, focusing on the rack of magazines near the counter.

I wasn’t sure why I felt that sudden discomfort. It was just eye contact, nothing more. But it was enough to make me feel a little off balance. I blinked, pushing the feeling away as I handed over the money, trying to ignore the heat creeping up my neck.

As I left the store and stepped back into the cool evening air, my thoughts started to wander. The normal routine of walking home should have been calming, but something about the interaction kept creeping back into my mind.

His hand.

I couldn’t shake the image of it—how large it had been, how solid and strong. I had seen hands before, of course. Lots of hands. Hands on desks, on books, on phones. But this... this was different. I couldn’t remember the last time a simple gesture had made me stop and actually look.

And why had I looked? Why had I let my eyes wander from his hand up to his arm, to his face, almost like I was searching for something?

I shook my head, trying to push it away, but it lingered. The strange thing wasn’t that I had noticed, but how I had felt when our eyes met. It was quick, just a fleeting moment, but there was a strange weight to it, a quiet understanding that I couldn’t quite place.

I pulled my jacket tighter around me as I walked down the street, but no matter how hard I tried to focus on something else, my thoughts kept returning to those hands. The muscular build. The veins. The way they seemed to speak without saying a word.

I wasn’t someone who usually noticed those things. Hands were hands, people were people. I didn’t think much of either. But now, every time I closed my eyes, it was all I could see—the strength, the presence, the intensity of it.

When I got home, I barely touched the snacks I’d bought. I tossed them onto the kitchen counter and went straight to my room, shutting the door behind me with a soft click.

I sat at my desk, staring blankly at the wall, trying to get my mind to focus on something, anything else. But all I could picture was his hand.

Was this what it felt like to notice something... or someone? For the first time? It was strange. Unusual. And for reasons I didn’t fully understand, I couldn’t forget it.

That night, after tossing and turning in my bed, I found myself sitting at my desk, the soft glow of my desk lamp illuminating the room. I wasn’t sure what had drawn me to it—maybe the restless feeling, maybe the fact that I couldn’t stop thinking about his hand—but without much thought, I reached for a piece of paper and a pencil.

At first, my hand moved slowly, unsure of where it was going. But then, almost without realizing it, I began sketching. The lines came easy, almost instinctively—thick and solid. The outline of a hand. His hand. The way the fingers curved, the veins that I couldn’t forget, the muscle definition that seemed to stand out so clearly in my mind.

The more I drew, the more I found myself lost in it. I wasn’t trying to make it perfect, but somehow, the shapes started to take on a life of their own. The hand seemed to take shape on the page, each line mirroring what I had seen earlier, but with a clarity I hadn’t expected.

I paused for a moment, staring at the paper. The drawing was far better than I thought it would be. In fact, it almost felt like I had captured more than just the image of the hand. It was like I had captured the feeling—the strength, the presence. Something that had stuck with me since that moment in the store.

I sat back in my chair and stared at the drawing for a few moments, my thoughts hazy, unsure of what to make of it. Why had I drawn it? Why was I still thinking about it?

But before I could get too caught up in the questions, my stomach growled, pulling me back to the present.

I sighed and stood up, stretching out my legs before heading to the kitchen. I grabbed the snacks I had bought earlier—chips, cookies, nothing that would require much effort—and sat down at the table. The quiet crunch of the chips filled the room as I ate, the repetitive sound almost calming. For a few minutes, I let my mind wander, but this time it wasn’t the hand that consumed my thoughts. It was something else.

My assignment.

I hadn’t even started it yet, and it was due tomorrow. The sudden shift in focus surprised me. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about school—it was just that I usually didn’t feel so… compelled to focus on something like this. The work felt distant, disconnected from the rest of my life. But now, as I chewed on another chip, my mind seemed to clear, and I could feel the pull of the assignment, the need to get it done.

I finished eating, wiped my hands on a napkin, and pulled the papers toward me, the weight of responsibility suddenly feeling more pressing. For a while, I lost myself in the work—researching, writing, and making progress.

And for the first time in a while, I wasn’t thinking about hands, or strangers, or any of the strange feelings that had clung to me earlier. I was thinking about something else entirely: the assignment that needed to be finished.

-