She sat at the edge of the oval during HPE, sketchbook open on her lap but pencil hovering idly over the page. Her headphones were in, drowning out the thudding of soccer balls and shouts of classmates, but even music couldn’t fully drown out the way her eyes kept drifting toward Tatum.

Tatum was on the field, effortlessly running drills, long orangish-blonde hair catching the sunlight, sparkling bluey-green eyes sharp even from a distance. She laughed with teammates, her voice bright and confident, and she found herself holding her breath whenever Tatum’s gaze swept across the field. She had no claim to Tatum — had never even spoken to her — but every small movement made her chest tighten and her imagination wander.

It had been like this for weeks now. Silent glances, small fantasies, dreams of what it might be like to talk to her, to tease her, to actually know her. She hated that she noticed these things, hated that she wanted it, but she couldn’t help herself.

“What’s so interesting over there?” a teammate asked, snapping her out of her thoughts. She shook her head, muttering something about sketching, not wanting to reveal how utterly distracted she was.

Meanwhile, Tatum had started to notice too. She caught her eyes following her from the bleachers and something about it made her smile softly. There was no teasing or judgment — just quiet curiosity and a strange warmth in her chest. She had seen the way she kept to herself, headphones always in, posture closed off, yet there was something soft in her eyes, something observant and sharp. Tatum wanted to reach out, wanted to see who this mysterious girl was.

By the end of HPE, Tatum found herself walking toward the bleachers under the guise of stretching, keeping her gaze subtly on her. She perched on the step above her, letting the sunlight catch her hair.

“You’re quiet,” Tatum said, voice light but not condescending. “Always here, always... sketching. Do you... ever play?”

She froze, caught off guard by the sudden attention. She pulled an earbud out, blinked at Tatum, and finally muttered, “Not really. Not my thing.”

“I figured,” Tatum said with a soft laugh. “But... you seem happy just watching.”

She tilted her head, trying to hide her flush behind her sketchbook. “I... yeah, I guess. It’s interesting to watch people,” she said, voice careful, sarcastic but warm, hiding the flutter in her chest.

Tatum smiled, a little brighter this time. “Well... I like that you’re here. You make it... nicer.”

She blinked, unsure whether to scoff or smile. Instead, she just looked up at Tatum, feeling the warmth in her chest, a strange comfort in the simple attention.

And just like that, something shifted. From a distance, a quiet fascination became mutual curiosity, a bridge forming between two very different girls — one introverted, sarcastic, and guarded; the other popular, bright, and a little brittle, secretly craving something genuine.

Tatum didn’t say anything else, not yet. She just lingered there a little longer, glancing down at her with a small, soft smile that promised she wanted to know more.

She, meanwhile, tried to hide the small, ridiculous grin spreading across her face. Maybe, just maybe, the girl she had been quietly pining for had noticed her.