I want to learn more about her.
But every time I try, she pulls further away.
She changes seats in class, shifts her body so I can't see her sketchbook, pretends not to hear me in the hallway. And still, I keep showing up - not because I think she owes me anything, but because I've never met someone who feels so much like quiet music in a world that won't stop shouting.
There's something about Senna - the way she disappears while staying right in front of you. It makes you lean in.
Today, in art class, the teacher announces we'll be sketching faces from observation. No mirrors. No selfies. Just each other. I swear the universe has a weird sense of humor, because when the partners are called out, I'm paired with her.
She looks like she wants to vanish into the floor.
I grab my stool and drag it over anyway.
"Fate," I say, half-smiling.
She rolls her eyes. Doesn't argue. Doesn't smile either.
I sit across from her, sketchbook in my lap, pencil poised. "I won't make it weird."
"You already are."
I laugh.
The class is full of energy - voices bouncing off the walls, pencils scratching furiously - but between us, there's only a soft sort of stillness.
She's watching me with those eyes that seem to catalog everything - like she's memorizing my edges in case she needs to escape them later. Her lips press together, uncertain.
Then she sneezes.
It's not even a real sneeze. It's a squeak. A hiccup in the shape of a sound.
I freeze.
"That was... adorable."
She groans. "Don't."
"No, really," I say, grinning. "That was like a kitten with allergies."
She laughs. And not just a little exhale - a full laugh. Honest. Sudden. It lands somewhere in my chest and settles like warmth.
"You're not going to tease me?" she asks.
"Why would I?" I say. "It made you smile."
And it did. I wish I could bottle that moment - her shoulders uncurled, her lips curved up, her eyes wide and caught off guard by joy. She looked like she didn't know laughter could belong to her.
For the rest of class, we don't say much. She draws. I pretend to.
But really, I'm watching her.
Not in a creepy way - just... studying. The way she folds her hands in her lap. The way her eyes narrow in focus when she sketches. How her mouth softens at the corners, like she's tasting silence and finding it sweet.
So I draw her.
Not perfectly. Not polished.
Just her.
Not the quiet girl. Not the sketchbook. Just Senna.
By the end of class, I close my sketchbook slowly, nervous. I don't want her to feel invaded.
But she leans toward me.
Her eyes land on the drawing.
She's silent.
Then she nods, just once.
Her hands gather her own half-finished sketch - of me, I think - and she tucks it into her folder like a secret.
As we walk out, I can't help myself.
"See you tomorrow, kitten sneeze."
She doesn't correct me.
And for the first time since we met, I think maybe - just maybe - she's letting me in.