The first thing Arone ever said to me was:

“Instead of drawing flowers, maybe focus on mathematics.”

I still remember how offended I felt.

I was fifteen, already tired of algebra, and halfway through decorating the corner of my notebook while our mathematics teacher solved equations on the board. Beside me sat Arone — the principal’s son, class topper, and the most irritating boy I had ever met.

He had become my new bench partner three days ago.

And I already disliked him.

I slowly turned toward him.

“Why are you looking at my notebook?”

“You’re sitting beside me,” he replied calmly.

“That doesn’t mean you can peep.”

A small smile appeared on his face.

“It’s hard not to when your equations look like they’re fighting for survival.”

I nearly threw my pencil at him.

From that day onward, teasing me became his favorite hobby.

Every mathematics class felt like a personal attack.

“You skipped a step again.”

“Your handwriting looks angry.”

“Are you solving the equation or threatening it?”

And every single time, I glared at him like I wanted him expelled from school immediately.

Unfortunately, he found that funny.

The worst part about Arone was that he noticed everything.

Whenever I forgot homework. Whenever I looked upset. Whenever I stopped talking during class.

He always noticed.

At first, I thought he was simply annoying.

Then slowly, without realizing it, I started waiting for his comments every morning.

Which was embarrassing.

One cold winter morning, I arrived late to class carrying too many books and accidentally dropped all my papers near the door.

The entire classroom burst into laughter.

I wanted the ground to swallow me alive.

Before I could kneel properly, someone bent down beside me quietly.

Arone.

Without saying anything, he helped collect my papers from the floor while everyone else continued laughing.

“You carry too much stuff,” he muttered.

“You talk too much.”

“You’re welcome.”

I looked away quickly to hide my smile.

That small moment stayed in my head for the rest of the day.

After that, things between us became strangely normal.

We argued over desk space. He stole my pens constantly. I kicked his chair whenever he annoyed me.

And somehow, we always ended up talking again five minutes later.

One afternoon during study hour, I spent almost ten minutes struggling with a mathematics problem before finally giving up dramatically.

“I hate algebra.”

“You hate every subject equally,” Arone replied beside me.

“That’s not true.”

“Name one subject you like.”

I opened my mouth.

Then closed it again.

“Exactly.”

I kicked his chair under the desk.

He laughed quietly.

Then, without asking, he pulled my notebook toward himself and fixed my equation neatly.

I watched him silently for a moment.

His handwriting was annoyingly perfect.

Everything about him was annoyingly neat.

“You’re staring again,” he said suddenly.

I looked away immediately.

“I’m looking at the equation.”

“You’ve been looking at my face for the last ten seconds.”

My cheeks instantly became warm.

“You’re so irritating.”

A small smile appeared on his face again.

And somehow...

I smiled too.

At fifteen, I still believed love would arrive loudly.

I thought it would be dramatic and obvious.

I didn’t know it could begin quietly instead.

Through unfinished mathematics problems. Through winter mornings. Through arguments across a shared desk.

And through a boy who slowly became my favorite part of school.

By December, arguing with Arone had become part of my daily routine.

If we weren’t fighting over mathematics, we were fighting over desk space.

If we weren’t fighting over desk space, we were fighting over pens.

And somehow, no matter how much we argued, we always ended up talking again five minutes later.

“You’re sitting too close,” I complained one morning while opening my notebook.

“We literally share a desk,” Arone replied calmly.

“That doesn’t mean you have to exist on my side too.”

He looked down at the desk thoughtfully.

“You own half a centimeter.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he said while taking out his books, “you still talk to me every day.”

I hated when he said things like that.

Mostly because he always sounded so sure of himself.

Outside the classroom windows, winter sunlight spread softly across the school ground while students slowly filled the corridors with noise. Some girls revised notes before class while others copied homework at the last second.

Meanwhile, I was struggling to solve another algebra problem.

Again.

After staring at the equation for several minutes, I finally dropped my pencil dramatically.

“I give up.”

“You’ve been trying for three minutes.”

“It felt like an hour.”

Arone glanced at my notebook before sighing softly.

“You skipped the formula.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Without asking, he pulled my notebook closer and rewrote the equation neatly beside my messy answer.

I watched him quietly for a second.

His handwriting was annoyingly pretty.

Everything about him was annoyingly neat.

“You’re staring again,” he said suddenly.

I looked away immediately.

“I’m looking at the equation.”

“You’ve been looking at my face for the last ten seconds.”

My cheeks instantly became warm.

“You’re so annoying.”

A small smile appeared on his face.

Unfortunately, he looked very pleased with himself afterward.

That afternoon during break, our classroom became chaotic because someone brought a tiny lizard inside.

Half the girls screamed immediately.

Including me.

“Get it away from me!” I shouted while climbing onto my chair dramatically.

Arone started laughing beside me.

“It’s tiny.”

“I don’t care!”

“You’re acting like it’s dangerous.”

“It moved!”

While trying to escape, someone accidentally pushed past my chair.

I lost my balance immediately.

Before I could fall, a hand grabbed my wrist quickly.

Warm.

Strong.

Steady.

Arone.

For one second, everything around me disappeared.

The noise.

The laughter.

The screaming.

All I could focus on was his hand around my wrist.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

I nodded too quickly.

“Yes.”

But he didn’t let go immediately.

His fingers stayed around my wrist for one extra second before slowly pulling away.

And somehow, that tiny moment stayed in my mind for the rest of the day.

That evening, after classes ended, I stayed behind pretending to organize my books.

Mostly because I knew Arone still had basketball practice.

And somehow...

I had started waiting for him without realizing it.

When he finally returned to the classroom, his hair looked messy from practice and his blazer hung loosely over one shoulder.

“You’re still here?” he asked.

“I had work.”

“You’ve been arranging the same notebook for five minutes.”

I stared at him suspiciously.

“Why do you notice everything?”

He looked slightly amused.

“Because you’re bad at hiding things.”

Before I could answer, cold wind rushed through the open windows.

I shivered immediately.

Without saying anything, Arone stepped closer and pulled one sleeve of his blazer over my freezing hand casually.

“There,” he said calmly. “Stop acting like you’re dying.”

My brain completely stopped working.

Meanwhile, he acted like nothing happened.

Which honestly made everything worse.

After that, Arone slowly became part of my everyday life.

Not in a dramatic way.

It happened quietly.

Through shared notes.

Through unfinished homework.

Through small arguments that somehow became normal.

Every morning, he arrived before first period and immediately started bothering me.

“You forgot your homework.”

“I did not.”

“It’s inside your history book.”

I froze.

Then quickly opened my bag.

Exactly where he said.

I looked at him suspiciously.

“How do you know these things?”

“You’re predictable.”

“You sound creepy.”

“You sound unprepared.”

I glared at him while he looked completely pleased with himself.

Unfortunately, this became our routine.

Arguing before class.

Complaining during mathematics.

Fighting over desk space.

Then somehow laughing again before lunch.

One cold morning, I walked into class half asleep while rubbing my freezing hands together.

“I hate winter,” I complained dramatically.

“You say that every day,” Arone replied without looking up from his notebook.

“Because every day is colder.”

“You’re just weak.”

I dropped into my chair angrily.

“Some people are naturally sensitive.”

“Some people forget sweaters every week.”

“That happened twice.”

“It happened yesterday too.”

I stared at him.

“You remember too much.”

A small smile appeared on his face.

“Someone has to.”

Before I could answer, he quietly placed a paper cup beside my notebook.

Warm milk tea.

I blinked in surprise.

“What’s this?”

“You looked like you were dying.”

“I was surviving.”

“Barely.”

The cup felt warm against my cold fingers.

“You bought this for me?”

“You’re asking too many questions.”

I smiled before I could stop myself.

Unfortunately, Arone noticed immediately.

“There,” he said while pointing at me. “That smile.”

“What smile?”

“The one you pretend not to have.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“You’re bad at lying.”

I looked away quickly and took a sip of the tea instead.

It tasted sweeter than usual.

That afternoon during study hour, our teacher left the classroom for a meeting, which immediately turned the entire class chaotic.

Someone started throwing paper balls.

A group near the windows argued loudly about football.

Meanwhile, I was trying very hard to finish my history notes peacefully.

A paper suddenly hit my head.

I looked up immediately.

Arone sat beside me looking suspiciously innocent.

“Did you just throw that at me?”

“No.”

“You’re literally holding more paper.”

“That proves nothing.”

I narrowed my eyes before throwing the paper back at him.

Unfortunately, my aim was terrible.

The paper hit our class monitor instead.

The entire classroom burst into laughter.

Meanwhile, I covered my face in horror.

“Oh my God.”

“You’re actually hopeless,” Arone said while laughing beside me.

“This is your fault.”

“You threw it.”

“You started it.”

“I regret nothing.”

Then suddenly, without warning, he laughed properly.

Not the small annoying smirk he usually gave me.

A real laugh.

Bright.

Warm.

Careless.

For one second, I completely forgot what we were even arguing about.

I just stared at him quietly.

Because somehow, seeing Arone laugh felt different.

Softer.

Like I was seeing a side of him nobody else noticed.

He slowly stopped laughing after realizing I was staring again.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like you forgot how to speak.”

My face instantly became warm.

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“And yet,” he replied calmly, “you still keep staring.”

I looked away immediately while he continued smiling beside me.

And somewhere between winter mornings, shared tea, and stupid arguments…

Arone had quietly become my favorite part of school.