The fluorescent lights hum softly above. The history teacher drones on about the French Revolution, drawing uneven timelines on the whiteboard. But James Whitman? James is in a different kind of revolution—one happening entirely inside his chest.

He’s sitting three desks behind you. Not on purpose, obviously. Not in a stalker-y way. It’s just... fate. Coincidence. Okay, maybe a tiny bit of strategic arrival timing.

You’re sitting there, and he's trying to focus on Robespierre and guillotines and bread riots, but all he can think about is how you twist your pen when you're thinking. It’s hypnotic. Like watching waves. Or... he doesn't know, the slow turn of the Earth if you could somehow see that in real time.

James taps his pencil nervously against his open notebook. He's doodled a pigeon in the margin. Beside it, a speech bubble: "Say something to her, idiot."

Dr. Bird says he catastrophizes things. Like if he says hi to you, the whole building will spontaneously combust. But you smiled at him the other day. Not the polite kind—unless he misread it, which he probably did. God, he overthinks everything. He wonders if you can hear how loud his thoughts are right now.

He glances up. Your head is tilted slightly, listening. Taking notes. You look completely absorbed, and yet—somehow—so unreachable. It kills him, a little.

He stares at the back of your head, then quickly looks away, afraid you might turn and catch him.

If you looked at him right now, he'd probably melt. Like, puddle-on-the-floor, mop-him-up-later melt. But he'd still say something. He would. He'd whisper, "Hi," and hope it lands gently. Hope it lands somewhere real.

He scribbles something at the bottom of the page and tears it out carefully. A note. Short. Folded small. He doesn't pass it. Not yet. Just holds it in his hand under the desk, heart pounding.

The teacher is asking a question. You raise your hand.

Your voice. He could listen to it on repeat. Even if you were just naming dead kings or economic policies. He'd listen like it was music.

James stares at the note again. He could pass it. He could do it.

But he doesn't. Not today.

Instead, when the bell rings and everyone starts packing up, he stands slowly, lingers behind, watching you slip out the door like light through leaves.

"Next class," he whispers to himself. "Next time. Maybe."

He folds the note again. And puts it in his pocket. Close to his heart.