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Claire never liked eye contact. It felt too revealing, like letting someone unzip your soul and rummage through the mess inside. So when she looked up during Literature class and saw Liam staring—again—she immediately looked back down.
Her fingers tightened around her pen. She could still feel the burn of his gaze, steady, unblinking, as if he was reading a secret only she knew she had.
She tried to focus on the words on the page:
"It is a truth universally acknowledged…"
But the only truth Claire knew was this: boys like Liam didn't look at girls like her. Not twice.
And yet… this wasn't the first time.
It happened during Chemistry too. She'd caught him glancing her way when Mr. Abbott dropped the whiteboard marker and everyone's head turned. Except Liam's. His eyes had already been on her.
Claire hated this. Hated how her chest tightened like it used to when she had anxiety attacks as a kid. Hated how she was aware of her every movement now—how she shifted her legs under the desk, how she kept her hair covering the right side of her face where the scar sat faint but real.
When the bell rang, she stood up too quickly, her chair screeching across the floor. The sound drew attention—his included. Claire turned to leave without packing properly, shoving her notebook into her bag with messy hands.
But then—his voice, low and even.
"Claire."
She froze. No one used her name like that. Not softly. Not like it meant something.
She didn't turn around.
Didn't answer.
Didn't breathe.
"You're always in a rush," he said behind her, casually, like he wasn't tearing a hole into her carefully built walls.
She walked faster.
But as she passed the window, her reflection caught her eye—and for a brief second, she saw what he might be seeing.
Lonely.
Beautiful in a way that hurt.
A girl wrapped in armor made of silence.
She shook the thought off like rain from a coat.
No.
She couldn't afford to be seen.
Not again.
Not by someone like him.
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