"Don't get close to him." "He's rude." "Cold. Always has that 'stay away' look." "Zayen’s just... not someone you want to mess with."

That’s all I ever heard about him.

Zayen—the senior with the sharp game, sharp jawline, and even sharper silences. He didn’t talk. He didn’t smile. He didn’t care.

At least, that’s what they said.

But I don’t believe in reputations. I believe in moments. And the moment I first saw him, everything I’d heard seemed suddenly, completely wrong.

It was the first week of the new term. I’d just joined the badminton team, and my stomach twisted with nerves as I stepped into the gym.

I wasn't nervous about playing. I was nervous about belonging.

The gym was mostly empty when I arrived early for practice. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting long golden beams over the court. The smell of varnish and sweat lingered like a memory.

And there he was.

Zayen.

On the court. Alone.

He moved like a ghost with purpose. Every step precise. Every stroke of the racket clean, no wasted energy.

He wasn’t just playing. He was fighting something only he could see.

He served the shuttle to the wall, over and over. Each time it bounced back, he met it perfectly, returning it like it was a real opponent.

No noise. No drama. Just rhythm. And silence.

I stood quietly by the benches, unsure if I should interrupt. Maybe he didn’t even know I was there.

But then he turned.

Our eyes met.

Sharp brown eyes under messy dark hair. A flicker of surprise, then stillness.

He didn’t frown. He didn’t nod.

He just looked.

I was supposed to look away. Everyone else always did.

But I didn’t.

I held his gaze. Calm. Curious. Then, instinctively, I smiled.

It wasn’t wide. Just enough. A simple smile that said, "I see you."

He blinked.

Then turned back to his practice.

Not coldly. Not rudely. Just... quietly.

Something about that moment stayed with me. I didn’t know why. Maybe because it was the first time Zayen hadn’t felt like a warning sign.

He felt... human.

And a little lost.

The next day, I found myself arriving early again.

He was there.

Again.

This time, he wasn’t practicing. He was just sitting on the floor, stretching in silence. His headphones were in, and he stared at the floor like it held the answers to questions he couldn’t ask out loud.

I placed my bag down and started warming up. I didn’t expect anything. Didn’t try to make him notice me.

But as I reached down to tie my laces, a shadow fell across my sneakers.

I looked up.

Zayen stood there. Holding a shuttle.

He didn’t speak. Just tapped it toward me with his racket.

It landed near my foot.

An invitation.

I raised an eyebrow, amused. Then smiled again.

I picked it up, stepped onto the court, and served.

That was our first rally.

Not a match. Not a challenge. A conversation without words.

He adjusted to my rhythm. Matched my pace. Gave me space to breathe, even as we moved.

And I realized—he wasn’t just skilled. He was intentional.

Every swing meant something.

When our rally ended, we didn’t say goodbye. He just walked past me again, slower this time. And I noticed it—the slight tilt of his head, the almost-smile playing on his lips.

Or maybe I imagined it.

The days that followed blurred into soft moments. I started looking for him. Not because I had to. Because I wanted to.

He didn’t speak to me. But he noticed me.

He started giving subtle nods when I arrived. Not a greeting. More like an acknowledgment.

Like he was saying: "You’re not like them."

And I wasn’t.

Everyone else feared him. I was fascinated.

Everyone else whispered behind his back. I wanted to hear his story.

And I was willing to wait for it.

One afternoon, after a long rally in practice, I dropped to the floor, breathing hard, sweat dripping down my forehead.

A bottle of water rolled toward me.

Zayen stood across the court, arms crossed, not saying a word.

But he’d noticed.

And he offered.

I took it, nodding in thanks.

He gave the tiniest of smirks—the kind you’d miss if you blinked.

That was the moment I realized: He’s not cold. He’s careful.

And slowly... He was letting me in.

Everyone thinks love begins with a confession.

But sometimes, it begins with silence.

A shared court. A stolen glance. A rally that says:

*"You understand me."

And maybe, just maybe... I was the first person who ever did.

End of Chapter 1

---

The gym had always felt cold—like a place of discipline, competition, and quiet echoes.

But now, it felt different.

It felt like a page waiting to be written.

And I was walking straight into the first sentence.

---

I pushed open the door, heartbeat steady but expectant. He was there. Of course, he was. Always earlier than everyone else.

Zayen stood with his back to me, adjusting the grip tape on his racket. There was a soft layer of light touching his shoulders from the high windows—like even the sun was curious about him.

He didn’t turn when I entered.

But I knew he noticed.

Somehow, he always did.

I stretched quietly in the corner. There was no greeting, no words. Yet somehow, the air felt full of meaning. It wasn’t silence; it was understanding.

He dropped a shuttlecock onto the floor and began serving it to the wall. Perfect form. Rhythmic precision. He didn’t play to impress anyone. He played because it was his language.

And for some reason, I wanted to learn how to speak it.

---

The shuttle rebounded. He caught it without looking. Then, without any signal or smile, he served it—right to me.

It landed softly near my foot.

An invitation. Again.

I looked up, and for the first time, Zayen held my gaze a little longer. Still unreadable, still distant—but no longer shutting me out.

I picked up the shuttle and stepped onto the court.

“Ready?” I asked. My voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t tremble.

He gave the faintest nod.

The game began.

---

It wasn’t intense. It wasn’t about points. It was... thoughtful.

He adjusted to me, but not in a way that made me feel small. He challenged me gently. Encouraged rhythm. Responded without words.

I couldn’t help but watch the way his expression shifted slightly between shots—focus, softness, restraint. He wasn’t trying to win. He was listening.

Every hit felt like a sentence.

Every pause, a breath.

We weren’t talking. We were communicating.

---

Halfway through, I missed a return. The shuttle fell between us, and we both lunged to pick it up. Our fingers brushed.

He looked at me. Directly. For a beat longer than necessary.

I didn’t flinch. Neither did he.

Something invisible passed between us in that second—a flicker of something almost vulnerable.

Then he stood and stepped back. Not coldly. Just carefully.

---

By the time the rest of the team arrived, we were back on opposite sides of the court. As if nothing had happened.

But everything had.

After practice, I stayed behind to help collect the equipment. Most of the others were already gone when I heard footsteps.

I turned.

Zayen stood near the rackets, holding my water bottle.

“You forgot this.”

His voice was low. Deep. Still carrying that strange calm.

“Oh. Thanks.” I reached out to take it, and again—our fingers touched. This time, neither of us moved away immediately.

I met his eyes. They weren’t cold at all.

They were quiet. And kind.

---

“Do you always stay this late?” he asked.

I blinked. Not because of the question, but because he asked it.

“I like the quiet,” I said. “It’s easier to think when everyone else is gone.”

He nodded slowly. “Same.”

And for a moment, we just stood there. In the stillness. No awkwardness. No pressure.

It felt... natural.

Then he turned to leave. But halfway through the door, he paused.

“You’re better than most of the juniors.”

I smiled, cheeks warm. “That a compliment?”

He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

“You decide.”

---

That night, I lay in bed replaying the day.

The sound of rackets. The silence between us. The way he looked at me—not with interest, exactly. But with recognition.

Like he saw something in me worth understanding.

I opened my journal, flipping past empty pages until I found one that felt like the right space.

"Day 2 – The boy who speaks with his silence. And I think I’m starting to hear him."

---

The next morning, I walked into class feeling lighter. And strangely... brave.

Maybe I didn’t need him to talk to everyone. Maybe it meant something that he only talked to me.

In the cafeteria, people still whispered about Zayen.

“He’s so full of himself.”

“Did you see how he just ignored the whole team?”

“He’s definitely hiding something.”

I didn’t say anything. But inside, I thought—You’re all wrong.

They didn’t see the way he handed me that water bottle. They didn’t hear his quiet compliment. They didn’t feel the silence that hummed like music.

Zayen wasn’t scary. He was... misunderstood.

And I was beginning to understand him.

---

That afternoon, it rained.

Practice was almost cancelled, but Coach insisted we do light training indoors. Everyone complained.

Except him.

Except me.

We ended up in the storage room, helping organize old equipment. The lights flickered, the air smelled like dust and damp socks, but somehow, it felt like the coziest place in the school.

Zayen stood next to me, sorting shuttle tubes. Every now and then, his arm brushed mine.

I finally broke the quiet.

“Do you like playing?”

He paused, then looked at me.

“It’s the only place where I don’t have to explain myself.”

I smiled. “You don’t have to. You just... play.”

He glanced down, the ghost of a real smile playing on his lips.

“Exactly.”

---

By the end of the day, I was drenched from the rain, tired, and somehow happier than I had been in weeks.

Zayen walked beside me to the gate. Still silent. Still steady.

Before parting ways, he said softly, “Don’t forget your bottle this time.”

I laughed. “I won’t. But if I do, you’ll return it, right?”

He looked at me, one brow slightly raised.

“Only if you smile like that again.”

My heart skipped. Literally skipped.

He turned and walked off into the misty rain.

And I stood there, smiling like a fool.

Under a grey sky, I’d found something golden.

Not love. Not yet.

But a spark. A start.

A boy who everyone feared. And a girl who didn’t.

---

End of Chapter 2

---

It had been a week since Zayen first spoke to me.

Not a full conversation, not even a sentence longer than six words—but those words were etched in my memory. They weren’t grand, weren’t romantic. But they meant something because they came from him.

And now, every time I walked into the gym, my eyes searched for him. Not desperately. Not obviously. But naturally—like breathing.

That morning, practice had ended early. Most students had already left, and Coach was discussing tournament schedules with the seniors. I stayed behind to practice serves alone.

I was halfway through a drill when I heard it.

A quiet rustle. Footsteps. Then…

"Your grip is too tense. You’re using too much wrist."

Zayen.

I turned slowly.

He stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching.

His voice wasn’t critical. Just calm. Observant. Like he wasn’t judging me, just trying to help.

“I… didn’t know you were still here,” I said, blinking.

“I stayed.”

That was it.

Simple. Honest.

He walked toward me and gently took my racket. Without asking. Without awkwardness. He just adjusted my hand, his fingers cool against mine.

“Hold it like this. Less tension. You don’t have to fight the shuttle, just guide it.”

He handed it back.

I stared at him for a second too long. Then served.

Clean. Smooth. Effortless.

“Whoa.”

He gave a small nod, then turned to pick up a shuttle for himself. “You’ll get better.”

“You should coach,” I said before I could stop myself.

He paused, mid-pickup. “I don’t like talking that much.”

I smiled. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He gave me a look that wasn’t quite a smirk but wasn’t blank either.

Then he served.

---

What followed wasn’t exactly a game. It was more like a slow dance.

One serve. One return. Silence in between.

My chest rose and fell with every shot. Not because I was tired. Because I was tuned in. To every blink. Every breath. Every moment he looked up and met my gaze.

The gym was empty. Just us. And the soft thud of rubber soles and feathered shuttles.

For the first time, I forgot we were senior and junior.

Forgot reputations. Forgot whispers.

It was just him. And me.

And something growing in the quiet between us.

---

After nearly twenty minutes, we collapsed onto the floor at the edge of the court.

He offered me a water bottle. Mine, again. He always noticed.

“Thanks,” I whispered.

He leaned back, resting on his hands, his eyes on the ceiling.

“I don’t hate people,” he said suddenly.

I looked at him, confused. “What?”

“Everyone thinks I do. That I’m angry. That I push people away.”

His voice was low. Not bitter. Just honest.

“I don’t hate them. I just… don’t know how to be around them.”

I stayed quiet. Letting him talk.

“I hate pretending. Fake smiles. Forced talks. It feels wrong.”

He turned his head slightly to look at me.

“But with you… I don’t have to do that.”

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat.

“You don’t have to pretend with me. Ever.”

He didn’t smile.

But something in his eyes softened.

---

We sat in that silence a little longer.

The court no longer felt like a battleground.

It felt like home.

Like something sacred.

And I realized something.

This wasn’t just a crush anymore.

It was a connection.

One built not on words.

But rallies. And silence.

And a boy who never let anyone in—except maybe, just maybe, me.

---

End of Chapter 3