Three

                                                                                 Aimee

“It’s nice to have you join us. Don’t worry, you’ll fit right in immediately,” Mr. Lance said as they left the principal’s office.

Aimee offered a small smile, her head slightly lowered as she tucked a few strands of her red hair behind her ear.

She would have preferred not to be formally introduced like this. It made everything feel heavier than it needed to be. But there was no avoiding it. Not here.

Not when her father had already made the call.

She followed Mr. Lance down the corridor, listening to the faint hum of the school waking up around them. Voices overlapped somewhere in the distance. Chairs scraped softly. Doors opened and closed in scattered rhythm.

It was starting.

Her new life, placed neatly into a timetable she hadn’t written.

For a brief moment, her thoughts drifted back to earlier that morning—the empty hallway, the quiet piano drifting through a half-open door.

She didn’t know why it stayed with her. She only knew it did.

Aimee exhaled softly as Mr. Lance opened the classroom door.

The noise inside softened instantly, then faded completely as every head turned toward the entrance.

Dozens of eyes landed on her at once.

She didn’t step back. She didn’t freeze either.

She simply stood still and let the moment pass over her, as though stillness could make her less visible.

Her gaze moved across the room carefully—quick, controlled, not lingering on anyone too long.

Until it stopped.

A boy sat by the window.

He hadn’t turned.

Not when the teacher entered.

Not when the room went silent.

Not even now.

His focus remained outside, as if the classroom itself was not part of his attention span.

Something about him pulled her focus longer than she intended. It wasn’t obvious at first. Just a feeling—quiet, unplaced.

For a brief second, the memory of the music room surfaced without permission. She didn’t understand why, but it made her look at him again.

Aimee forced her attention forward as Mr. Lance spoke.

“This is Aimee. She’s a transfer student and will be joining your class from today.”

The room shifted again.

Interest. Curiosity. Whispered reactions trying to form and failing under the teacher’s presence.

But the boy by the window didn’t react. Not even slightly.

Aimee noticed that more than she wanted to.

“Take the seat at the back,” Mr. Lance said, pointing toward an empty desk two rows away from the boy.

She nodded and walked down the aisle.

She could feel eyes following her movements, tracking her as if she were something new to figure out. She kept her expression neutral, her steps steady, until she reached her seat, and she sat down.

The room slowly settled back into itself as Mr. Lance began teaching.

Chalk moved across the board. Pages turned. Pens scratched softly against paper.

Normality resumed.

But Aimee’s attention didn’t settle immediately. Not completely.

Her gaze drifted back toward the window without her permission.

The boy was still there.

Still turned away.

Still distant in a way that didn’t look accidental anymore.

It wasn’t just distraction. It was absence. Like the room had learned to continue around him without expecting anything back.

Aimee frowned slightly before looking forward again.

The teacher hadn’t called him out.

Not once.

Even when his attention didn’t shift, even when it didn’t seem like he was part of the lesson at all.

That detail stayed with her longer than she expected.

But she didn’t ask.

She told herself not to.

And eventually, she forced herself to focus on the lesson.

***

The rest of the morning passed in fragments.

Lessons blended into each other. New names. New faces. Pages filled with information she half-absorbed and half-filtered out.

During breaks, students approached Aimee in small groups.

Smiles that were a little too eager. Questions that circled carefully around who she was without asking directly.

She responded politely. Briefly. Carefully. Nothing that gave too much away.

That part of her life stayed locked where it belonged.

Eventually, curiosity would become confirmation, and she didn’t intend to give them that satisfaction.

By the time lunch approached, the classroom had settled into a looser rhythm.

Noise returned, movement increased, and people began preparing to leave in clusters.

Aimee stood slowly, her attention drifting without intention. And then she saw him again.

The boy from the window was already leaving first, before anyone else.

No hesitation. No interaction. No acknowledgment of the room around him.

Just departure. Like he had never fully arrived in the first place.

Aimee watched him leave without meaning to.

Then followed the movement of the rest of the class as they began to talk again, the space filling with noise that felt slightly louder now than before.

“Do you know where the cafeteria is?” a voice asked.

A girl had stepped closer to her desk.

“I’m Cynthia,” she added with a small smile. “But you can call me Cindy.”

Aimee returned a polite smile. “I saw it earlier this morning,” she said. “During my walk around the school.”

“Really? How early did you come?” another student asked from across the room.

Aimee hesitated slightly. “Just early,” she replied.

Cindy laughed lightly. “Well, come with us then. We’ll show you the rest properly.”

Aimee almost declined. She preferred moving alone. Fewer questions. Fewer expectations. But refusing felt unnecessary, so she nodded once.

“Alright.”

She didn’t expect the group to grow as quickly as it did. Two girls became four, then five.

They filled the hallway with conversation as they walked, pointing out classrooms, joking about teachers, explaining small rules and habits of the school as if she might need all of it immediately.

Aimee listened mostly. Not enough to get involved. Just enough to avoid seeming rude.

But her attention kept drifting forward without permission, searching without meaning to.

Eventually, they reached the cafeteria.

Noise increased again—louder, heavier, more layered.

Cindy and the others guided her through the queue, talking over each other as they explained food options and seating areas.

Aimee followed quietly, collecting a tray, choosing food without much thought.

She didn’t want to overstay the moment. Didn’t want to become part of something she hadn’t agreed to yet.

They found a table, and she sat down. Silently listening to the conversation continued around her. Laughter came and went in waves she didn’t fully follow.

Aimee ate slowly, mostly observing, letting herself exist at the edge of the group without stepping further in.

And then—Her gaze shifted.

Automatically. Across the cafeteria. And stopped.

The boy from the classroom was there.

Seated alone. Far corner. Table untouched by anyone else. A sandwich on his plate, nothing more. No one approached him. No one spoke to him. No one even looked in his direction.

It wasn’t loud enough to be deliberate, but it also didn’t feel accidental.

Aimee watched him for a moment longer than she intended. He wasn’t doing anything unusual. Just eating. Reading between bites, and occasionally glancing out the window like it mattered more than anything happening inside the room.

And still, the distance around him felt structured. Not natural, or random. Like space itself had agreed not to interrupt him.

Aimee frowned slightly. She didn’t understand it. She shouldn’t have been paying attention at all. And yet she was.

“What are you looking at?” one of the girls asked suddenly.

Aimee blinked once and turned back to her tray. “Nothing,” she said quietly.

The conversation moved on without pause, and she joined it just enough to stay present, but her attention didn’t fully return.

Not entirely.

Because even when she wasn’t looking, the corner of the cafeteria stayed in her mind longer than it should have.

And she didn’t know why that bothered her.

So she let it go.

Or tried to.

Maybe if she tried hard enough, she would get it off her memory, and just go through the school quietly and unbothered like she wanted, like she hoped to.