Chapter Nine— Background Noise

Amelia Hart didn’t notice Micah at first.

She saw him the way people see clouds while walking — there, but not meaningful. A classmate in her literature seminar, a coworker at the university library, a faint background figure on the edge of her social orbit. He never spoke much, never intruded, never left a lasting impression.Micah, Ellis, and their older brother are Hispanic on their mother’s side Dominican and white on their father’s side. Their parents raised them with strong cultural ties — Spanish spoken at home, Sunday dinners filled with arroz con pollo, plantains, and loud arguments that always turned into laughter.

Sibling Dynamics Micah brother Mateo (eldest): Protective, quick-tempered but responsible. He inherited the “golden boy” expectations, so he often feels like he carries the weight of the family’s image. He notices when Micah drifts too far, but doesn’t always confront him directly.

Ellis (middle): The bridge. Sharp-tongued, nurturing, observant. She’s Amelia’s best friend, She often switches into Spanish when emotions overflow — especially disappointment.

Micah (youngest): The shadow. Always compared to his siblings, he learned to observe instead of shine. He channels that into art, into studying people — and into Amelia.

 His quiet intensity noticed her. Every day. Every movement.He knew how she twirled her pen when she was thinking, how she always hesitated before answering questions as if editing herself. He knew she hated cherries but loved cherry-flavored lollipops. He watched her wear that worn-out brown leather journal like armor, always tucked against her ribs.

He noticed how she sniffled after watching that indie film in the campus theater. And he noticed the crease in her forehead when someone interrupted her while she read.

To her, he was wallpaper. To him, she was scripture.

Micah never said anything outright.

He didn’t need to.

His admiration wasn’t loud, wasn’t dramatic. It threaded itself into the unnoticed corners of their days, small details no one else ever saw — or if they did, they didn’t care enough to question.

He remembered her schedule better than her own friends did. Somehow, he was always at the vending machine when she came out of her literature seminar, leaning against the wall like he just happened to be there. Always leaving when she did. Always a step behind.

When group projects paired them across the table, he’d be silent through half the conversation. But if Amelia’s pen ran out of ink, one slid across the table from his hand before she even asked. He never looked at her while doing it. Never asked for it back afterward.

It wasn’t wrong, exactly.

It was just… precise.

At work, when she passed behind the circulation desk, he straightened — not stiff, not obvious, just more alert. Like her presence tugged an invisible thread inside him. When she laughed at a coworker’s joke, he didn’t laugh too. He just chuckled and watched. His lips twitching slightly, as though her smile was enough.

And yet — he never crossed a line. Never touched her longer than he should. Never said anything that could be twisted into flirtation. If anyone noticed him at all, they would’ve called him polite. Quiet. Almost forgettable.

But Amelia started to notice.

Each comment felt harmless, casual.

But each one reached too deep.

Like he wasn’t complimenting her — he was decoding her.

Sometimes, she’d catch him looking away right after he said something, like he was embarrassed to have revealed too much.

Other times, he held her gaze a second too long, his expression unreadable — not smug, not shy, just knowing.

It was strange.

He wasn’t her type.

He wasn’t even her friend.

But the way he spoke to her made her feel like there were hidden meanings in her smallest actions — like the world around her was full of clues only he understood.

She noticed the way his gaze lingered a fraction longer than casual when she pushed her hair behind her ear. She noticed how, when she wore her navy cardigan, he knew what kind of day she was going to have. She noticed how he always stood just far enough away to keep it innocent — but close enough that the air between them thickened.

And she noticed, most of all, that nobody else noticed.

That was what made it feel strange.

Not wrong. Not yet.

Just off.

She never said anything. What was there to say? He looked at me too long. He remembered I like mint tea instead of chamomile. He wrote down the author I mentioned once, and now he reads her books.

It wasn’t evidence.

It was atmosphere.

She remembered the response she got when mentioning Micah’s behavior to Ellis.

So she tucked it away, unspoken. She told herself it was harmless, the kind of quiet attention most people longed for and never got. But somewhere deep inside, the unspoken thought curled:

If it was so harmless… why did it feel like a secret?

Amelia didn’t know when she first noticed.

Maybe it had always been there — too faint to name, too quiet to call out.

Micah’s attention wasn’t like anyone else’s. It wasn’t loud or demanding. It slipped beneath conversations, beneath the cracks of daily life, so gentle that no one else seemed to register it at all. But Amelia did. She couldn’t not.

The professor droned on about narrative structures, pacing, and unreliable narrators. Amelia sat near the middle, scribbling notes half out of obligation, half because it kept her awake. She shifted in her seat, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

That was when she saw him.

Micah sat three rows back, angled slightly toward her. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even looking directly at her anymore — not after the first glance. But she caught the flicker of his gaze when her hand lifted. The second his pencil moved across his notebook.

What was he writing?

Not notes. His eyes weren’t on the board, not on the professor. They were on her. And then, casually, he lowered his head, as though it were nothing at all.

No one else noticed. No one ever did.

The next day, she returned a stack of books to the circulation desk. The line was short, two students in front of her. She saw him there — quiet, sorting returns, eyes lowered to the spines.

When it was her turn, she slid the books across the desk. Their hands didn’t touch, not even close. But as he scanned the barcodes, she noticed something that made her pause:

On the desk, tucked half under his notebook, was a title she’d mentioned weeks ago. A book she’d offhandedly said she loved but hadn’t read since high school. No one else in the conversation had cared.

But here it was.

In his possession.

When he handed her receipt back, he didn’t say anything. Just looked up briefly, eyes steady, then down again.

It wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t anything.

But Amelia walked away with her pulse thrumming.

Later that week, she ducked into the coffee shop near campus. Her boyfriend, Colton, had texted her to meet him there, but he was late. She stood in line, scrolling on her phone, when she heard the scrape of a chair.

Micah was sitting by the window. Alone. Sketchbook open.

She froze. He didn’t call her name, didn’t wave, didn’t even pretend to notice her. But as she waited for her drink, she glanced sideways — and saw it.

On his page, half-finished in graphite, was a drawing.

Not of the café. Not of the window.

Of her. Or at least an image that seemed to resemble her.

Not perfect — just her posture, her tilted head, the curve of her shoulder under her coat. He sketched like someone who wasn’t creating but recording.

Her name was called. She grabbed her drink and fled to the other end of the shop before Colton arrived. By the time she glanced back, Micah’s sketchbook was closed.

And when Colton slid into the chair across from her, smiling, oblivious, she forced herself to smile back. She didn’t tell him. What could she even say?

It kept happening.

Little things. Tiny things. Things that would sound absurd if she tried to put them into words.

She walked down the hallway one afternoon, juggling books and her phone, when the strap of her bag slipped from her shoulder. Before it even hit the ground, Micah was there. He didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just helped, then walked away without waiting for a thanks.

Her friends ahead of her didn’t even notice.

At a small gathering later that week, she and Colton sat with a group of classmates. Laughter bounced across the room, conversations overlapping.

Amelia felt a gaze before she found it. Across the circle, half-hidden in shadow, Micah’s eyes locked with hers. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even pretending to be part of the conversation. He just watched.

It was only a second.

Then he looked away, leaned back, like nothing had happened.

Colton was telling a story about a professor. Her friends were laughing. Life went on.

But Amelia couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was happening beneath it all, quiet and invisible.

It wasn’t wrong. Not yet.

But it wasn’t nothing, either.

It was something between them that no one else seemed to see.

Something Amelia never spoke about.

And maybe that was what made it feel like a secret.

Journal Entry – Amelia

I don’t know what to call it.

It’s not staring. Not obvious. Not the kind of thing you can point to and say, see, there it is.

It’s quieter than that.

Micah looks at me the way someone studies light through glass. Not with hunger. Not even with softness. With… focus. Like I’m a subject, not a person.

And no one else notices. No one sees when he already has the book I mentioned. Or when he sketches me without asking. Or when he steadies me in a hallway before anyone else can react.

I should say something. To Colton. To my friends. To him.

But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. Because none of it sounds wrong. It just sounds… off.

And if I say it out loud, it’ll become real.

And maybe I don’t want it to be real.

Because here’s the truth I don’t want to write:

Sometimes, when he looks at me like that, I feel like I’m not invisible anymore.

And I don’t know if that terrifies me or thrills me.

Maybe both.