Martin had been in college for exactly four weeks.

Which, in college time, was long enough to know three important things.

First, nobody actually understood the timetable.

Second, when a professor said, “This is very important for your future,” it usually meant, “This will be on the exam.”

And third, if you found a decent seat in the classroom, you protected it with your life.

Martin had found his.

Near the window.

Not too close to the front, where professors could make eye contact and suddenly remember that questions existed.

Not too far at the back either, where people seemed to be running small underground businesses involving snacks, gossip, and suspiciously frequent bathroom breaks.

His seat was perfect.

Martin liked perfect things.

Organised notes.

Straight margins.

Pens that worked on the first try.

Books without folded corners.

People who replied with actual words instead of sending “hmm.”

He was, unfortunately, the kind of person who sometimes read a chapter before the professor taught it.

Nobody needed to know that.

Martin had joined college later than most of the others.

By the time he started attending classes four weeks earlier, friendships had already been formed.

Groups existed.

Inside jokes existed.

People already knew who borrowed money and conveniently developed amnesia afterwards.

Martin had simply entered this complicated social ecosystem, chosen a seat near the window, and quietly tried to become part of it.

It wasn't that he hated people.

He just wasn't particularly talented at the beginning part.

The Hello, my name is Martin, please decide whether we can tolerate each other for the next three years part.

Thankfully, one girl in class had spoken to him first.

She was popular.

Painfully popular.

Martin had never seen one person know that many people without being either a politician or involved in some sort of pyramid scheme.

But she had been nice to him.

She had started a conversation when Martin was still in his quiet-new-boy phase, and because of that, she became one of the few classmates he felt comfortable casually speaking to.

Life became slightly easier after that.

Martin found his routine.

Come to class.

Sit near the window.

Study.

Occasionally speak to someone.

Go home.

Simple.

Predictable.

Peaceful.

Then, one morning, the classroom door opened.

And Martin's peaceful little routine quietly packed its bags.

---

The morning itself had been painfully ordinary.

The professor hadn't arrived yet.

A boy two benches behind Martin was explaining a movie with such enthusiasm that, by now, half the class knew the ending without ever having watched it.

Someone was eating chips.

At eight-thirty in the morning.

Martin tried not to judge.

He failed.

He looked back at the open book on his desk.

Technically, he was studying.

Realistically, he had been reading the same paragraph for the last four minutes.

Then the classroom door opened.

Martin looked up.

Two girls walked in.

He recognised one immediately.

His popular classmate.

Of course.

She entered the room and, almost instantly, people noticed her.

Someone called her name.

Another person waved.

A boy from the other side of the classroom moved his bag from a chair as if preparing a royal seat.

Martin almost smiled.

Then he noticed the girl beside her.

June.

Although Martin didn't know her name yet.

She walked in with her friend, talking about something Martin couldn't hear.

She wasn't confused.

She wasn't lost.

She was simply trying to figure out where her friend intended to sit.

Which, considering her friend's social life, was apparently a difficult question.

“Where are you sitting?” June asked.

Her friend pointed somewhere across the classroom.

June followed the direction of her finger.

“Where?”

“There.”

June stared at her.

“That is half the classroom.”

Her friend laughed.

June shook her head.

And Martin saw her eyes.

Oh.

That was inconvenient.

Martin had always considered himself a reasonably intelligent person.

Not a genius.

But functional.

He could form sentences.

Solve problems.

Remember important information.

Yet, for approximately three seconds, his brain completely stopped participating in his life.

He stared.

June had large brown eyes.

Warm ones.

The sort of eyes that looked almost unfair on a normal human face.

Martin blinked.

Then blinked again.

Stop looking.

His brain had returned.

Unfortunately, it had returned only to criticise him.

You're staring.

Martin immediately looked down at his book.

Good.

Normal.

Casual.

He was reading.

He had always been reading.

Reading was his passion.

His purpose.

His—

What paragraph was this?

Martin had absolutely no idea.

He carefully lifted his eyes again.

The girl was walking towards a seat with her friend.

Her hair moved slightly when she turned.

Martin looked back down.

No.

Five seconds later, he looked again.

This was ridiculous.

He didn't know her.

He hadn't spoken to her.

He didn't even know her name.

For all he knew, she could be an absolutely terrible person.

Maybe she kicked puppies.

Maybe she borrowed pens and never returned them.

Maybe she replied “K” to long emotional messages.

Martin considered this.

Then the girl smiled at something her friend said.

His entire argument collapsed.

Fine.

Maybe she doesn't kick puppies.

---

The professor entered a few minutes later, saving Martin from his rapidly deteriorating dignity.

Everyone settled down.

Books opened.

The classroom became quiet.

Martin tried to concentrate.

He genuinely did.

The professor explained something on the board.

Martin wrote it down.

The professor continued.

Martin wrote that down too.

Then the girl whispered something to her friend.

Martin looked up.

He couldn't hear what she said.

He didn't need to.

She was explaining something with her hands, her face strangely expressive for a conversation happening almost completely in whispers.

Her friend covered her mouth to stop herself from laughing.

The girl grinned.

Martin smiled.

Then immediately realised he was smiling.

At someone else's conversation.

From several benches away.

He straightened his face.

Get a grip.

Martin returned to his notes.

Three minutes later, he looked up again.

This time, she was listening to the professor.

Completely serious.

Martin watched her for a moment.

Then, slowly, her expression changed.

Concentration.

Confusion.

More confusion.

Acceptance.

Her soul leaving her body.

Martin bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.

Apparently, they understood the lecture equally well.

Which was to say, not at all.

For the rest of the class, Martin made a genuine effort not to look at her.

He failed eleven times.

Not that he counted.

He absolutely counted.

---

Over the next few days, Martin began noticing her.

Not intentionally.

Obviously.

It simply… happened.

He noticed that she talked a lot when she was comfortable.

He noticed that her face usually revealed her opinion several seconds before her mouth did.

He noticed that she could sit quietly for a long time and then suddenly say something that made her friend nearly choke laughing.

He noticed her voice.

Her laugh.

The way she sometimes stared into absolutely nothing.

Martin noticed far too much.

And because he was Martin, noticing eventually became analysing.

Analysing became overthinking.

And overthinking became a full-time unpaid internship.

One afternoon, she was talking animatedly to someone across the classroom.

Martin watched her for a second.

Then another.

And a very reasonable thought entered his mind.

She's completely out of my league.

Martin leaned back in his chair.

There.

Problem solved.

He liked looking at her.

She was beautiful.

He was… Martin.

End of story.

He looked down at his notebook.

She probably likes confident guys.

Martin adjusted his glasses.

Tall guys.

He frowned.

Probably someone with better hair.

That one felt personal.

Martin ran a hand through his hair anyway.

It did absolutely nothing.

His hair had chosen independence.

He sighed.

Across the classroom, the girl laughed.

Martin looked at her again.

She seemed bright.

Not in the loud, attention-seeking way.

Just…

Bright.

Like she carried an entire little world inside her and occasionally forgot to close the door.

Martin wondered what she thought about.

What made her laugh that hard.

What made her quiet.

Whether she liked books.

Whether she—

You don't even know her name.

Right.

Important detail.

---

Martin discovered her name two days later.

Someone called from across the classroom.

“June!”

The girl turned.

Martin looked up immediately.

June.

He repeated it silently.

June.

It suited her.

Which was a ridiculous thought because months were not supposed to suit people.

Still.

June.

Martin looked down at his notebook.

Without thinking, he wrote it.

June.

He stared at the word.

Then immediately scratched it out.

What was wrong with him?

Martin looked around the classroom suspiciously.

Nobody had noticed.

Good.

Because if anyone found that notebook, he would have to leave the country.

Possibly change his identity.

Maybe grow a moustache.

Although Martin wasn't entirely confident about his moustache-growing abilities.

He closed the notebook.

That was enough.

This was just a crush.

A small one.

A harmless one.

He would do nothing about it.

Absolutely nothing.

Martin was very good at doing nothing.

So he admired June from a safe distance.

Occasionally looked at her.

Immediately looked away if she moved her head even slightly.

And convinced himself that the whole situation was perfectly manageable.

June, meanwhile, barely knew he existed.

Or at least, that was what Martin believed.

He didn't know that June had already noticed him.

Unfortunately for Martin, it wasn't because of his eyes.

Or his smile.

Or his mysterious quiet-boy charm.

No.

June had noticed him for an entirely different reason.

And her first impression of Martin was about to be significantly less romantic than his first impression of her.

Because while Martin looked across the classroom and thought—

She's like a moon I can't reach.

June would soon look at Martin and think—

Oh God.

Not another one.

But that misunderstanding belonged to another day.

For now, Martin sat beside the window, pretending to read.

June sat across the classroom, completely unaware that she had already ruined one perfectly intelligent boy's concentration.

And somewhere between an open book, a classroom door, and a pair of brown eyes—

Martin's quiet little life had begun to change.

He just didn't know it yet.

June had a problem.

Technically, the problem wasn't hers.

It belonged to her friend.

June had simply adopted it.

Her friend was popular.

Not normal-person popular.

Not people smile at you in the hallway popular.

She was the kind of popular where walking from one classroom to another could somehow become a public event.

Someone was always calling her name.

Someone always wanted to talk.

Someone needed notes.

Someone needed help.

Someone had a very important question that, suspiciously, could only be asked when no other girls were standing nearby.

And then there were the boys.

June had opinions about the boys.

Most of those opinions were not kind.

She had watched enough of them suddenly become interested in subjects they had ignored for an entire semester.

“Hey, did you finish the assignment?”

“Can you explain this topic?”

“Which page did sir say?”

“Do you have an extra pen?”

June had once watched a boy ask her friend for the time.

While holding his phone.

In his hand.

The screen was on.

June had stared at him so hard he eventually walked away.

So yes.

June was suspicious.

Maybe slightly overprotective.

Fine.

Very overprotective.

But someone had to be.

Her friend clearly had the survival instincts of a friendly golden retriever.

She assumed everyone was nice.

June assumed everyone needed background verification.

Together, they maintained balance in the universe.

Which was exactly why June noticed Martin talking to her.

---

It happened a few days after Martin had learnt June's name.

The class was noisy.

The professor hadn't arrived yet, and everyone was using those precious unsupervised minutes responsibly.

By shouting.

Martin stood near June's friend.

He had a notebook in one hand.

His laboratory record was incomplete.

This bothered Martin deeply.

An incomplete lab record sat in his mind like an unpaid electricity bill.

He had missed a few practical sessions because he'd joined college late, and now he needed the earlier work.

There was one obvious person to ask.

June's friend.

She had been the first person in class to speak to him.

When Martin had arrived four weeks late, carrying the expression of a man who had accidentally walked into the middle of a television series during season three, she had talked to him.

She'd explained a few things.

Told him which professor taught which subject.

Warned him about one particular lecturer's habit of giving surprise questions.

Most importantly, she had made him feel slightly less like an intruder.

So Martin felt comfortable asking her things.

That morning, he walked towards her desk.

“Hey.”

She looked up.

“Hi, Martin.”

“Do you have the lab workbook?”

“Which one?”

“The practical record. I need the work from before I joined.”

“Oh.”

She began searching through her bag.

Martin waited.

That was it.

That was the entire conversation.

Painfully academic.

Tragically innocent.

There was more chemistry inside the laboratory workbook than there was between Martin and the girl standing in front of him.

Unfortunately, June was watching from across the room.

And June did not have subtitles.

She saw Martin walk towards her friend.

She saw him smile.

She saw her friend smile back.

Then her friend started searching inside her bag while Martin continued standing there.

June narrowed her eyes.

Oh, for God's sake.

Another one.

She had noticed Martin before.

The quiet boy with glasses.

The one who sat near the window.

The one who occasionally looked in her direction and immediately developed a sudden, passionate interest in his notebook.

June hadn't thought much about him.

Until now.

She watched him talking to her friend.

So that's why.

June sighed.

Her friend was still searching through her bag.

Martin said something.

Her friend laughed.

June's suspicion immediately upgraded itself to certainty.

He's flirting.

Martin had actually said, “I think sir hates incomplete records.”

And June's friend had replied, “Sir hates everyone equally.”

Truly.

Scandalous behaviour.

June stood up.

She walked towards them.

Martin noticed her coming.

His brain, which had been functioning perfectly until that moment, immediately became less reliable.

June stopped beside her friend.

“What do you need?”

Martin blinked.

There were many possible answers to this question.

Unfortunately, Martin's brain briefly suggested you.

He mentally slapped himself.

“The lab workbook,” he said.

June looked at him.

Then at her friend.

Then back at Martin.

Of course.

The workbook.

The classic.

June had heard every variation of this nonsense.

Notes.

Assignments.

Books.

Pens.

Apparently, romance in college was heavily dependent on stationery.

“I have it,” June said.

Martin paused.

“Oh.”

June opened her bag.

Her friend finally pulled out her own workbook.

“Found it—”

“I'll give him mine,” June said.

Her friend looked at her.

Martin looked at her.

June looked completely normal.

At least, she believed she did.

Inside her head, she was escorting a suspicious individual away from a protected civilian.

Her friend slowly put her workbook back.

“Okay…”

June pulled out her record book and held it towards Martin.

“Here.”

Martin stared at it.

Then at June.

“You can take it,” she said.

Martin accepted the book.

“Thanks.”

June smiled.

It was polite.

Controlled.

Professional.

The smile of a woman who believed she had successfully handled a security situation.

“You're welcome.”

Martin smiled back.

June's eyes narrowed almost invisibly.

Why is he smiling like that?

Martin, meanwhile, was experiencing a completely different reality.

She gave me her book.

That was his thought.

Nothing intelligent followed it.

Just that.

She gave me her book.

Martin looked down at the record in his hands.

June's name was written on the cover.

He already knew her name.

Still, seeing it written there made something strange happen inside his chest.

He looked up.

June had already turned towards her friend.

Martin walked back to his seat.

His friend glanced at the workbook.

“Whose is that?”

“June's.”

Martin tried to sound casual.

He failed so badly that it should have been studied academically.

His friend looked at him.

Then at June.

Then back at Martin.

“Oh.”

Martin opened the workbook.

“Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You made a sound.”

“It was a normal sound.”

“It wasn't.”

His friend smiled.

Martin ignored him.

Across the room, June sat beside her friend.

Her friend leaned closer.

“Why did you give him yours?”

June looked at her.

“What?”

“I had mine.”

“I know.”

“So?”

June lowered her voice.

“He was talking to you.”

Her friend stared at her.

“Yes.”

“For a long time.”

“It was thirty seconds.”

June ignored this unnecessary mathematical correction.

“He wanted your book.”

“Yes.”

“So I gave him mine.”

Her friend remained silent.

Then slowly smiled.

June immediately disliked that smile.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you know something.”

Her friend shrugged.

“I don't.”

June stared at her.

Her friend stared back.

Then she started laughing.

June frowned.

“What?”

“You thought he was flirting with me.”

“No.”

“You did.”

“I did not.”

“You rescued me.”

“I gave him a book.”

“You rescued me with educational material.”

June rolled her eyes.

“Shut up.”

Her friend continued laughing.

June looked across the classroom.

Martin was copying something from her workbook.

Quiet.

Focused.

His glasses had slipped slightly down his nose.

He pushed them back without looking up.

June watched him for two seconds.

Then looked away.

Still suspicious.

Definitely suspicious.

---

Martin finished the laboratory work faster than necessary.

This had absolutely nothing to do with June.

Martin told himself this repeatedly.

He simply liked completing work on time.

That was all.

It was pure academic responsibility.

The fact that finishing the record meant he had a legitimate reason to speak to June again was completely irrelevant.

Entirely coincidental.

Martin finished copying the last section.

Closed June's workbook.

Then stared at the cover.

He needed to return it.

Simple.

Walk over.

Give her the book.

Say thank you.

Leave.

Martin had successfully completed laboratory examinations more complicated than this interaction.

He stood.

Then sat back down.

His friend looked at him.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You stood up.”

“I changed my mind.”

“About standing?”

Martin glared at him.

His friend wisely returned to his work.

Two minutes later, Martin stood again.

This time, he walked towards June.

June saw him coming.

Her first thought was immediate.

Here we go.

Martin stopped near her desk.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“I finished the work.”

He held out the workbook.

June looked at it.

“Okay.”

Martin gave it to her.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

There.

Conversation complete.

Martin should have walked away.

He knew this.

June knew this.

The universe knew this.

Martin remained standing.

June looked up.

Martin looked down.

Silence.

June waited.

Martin's brain searched desperately for something useful.

Then it found an idea.

It was not a good idea.

“Can I get your number?”

June stared at him.

There it was.

June almost wanted to applaud herself.

I knew it.

Martin saw her expression change.

His survival instincts activated.

“For the book.”

June looked at the book.

The book was currently in her hands.

Martin followed her eyes.

He realised the problem.

Right.

The book had been returned.

The book could no longer assist him.

Martin continued anyway because apparently humiliation was a journey and he had already purchased the ticket.

“I mean… if I need it again.”

June stared.

Martin wished the floor would open.

Nothing happened.

College infrastructure failed him once again.

June leaned back slightly.

In her head, every previous suspicion was standing up and clapping.

Of course he wanted her number.

First her friend.

Now her.

Interesting strategy.

June almost said no.

Then she looked at Martin.

He looked genuinely nervous.

Not smooth.

Not confident.

Not even remotely good at whatever June thought he was attempting.

Actually, he looked like he regretted every decision that had brought him to this exact desk.

June sighed internally.

Fine.

It was just a phone number.

If he became irritating, blocking people was one of modern civilisation's greatest achievements.

“Okay.”

Martin blinked.

“Okay?”

“Yes.”

June held out her hand.

“Phone.”

Martin gave it to her so quickly he nearly dropped it.

June typed her number.

Saved it.

Then handed the phone back.

“There.”

Martin looked at the screen.

Her number.

Actually there.

“Thanks.”

June nodded.

Martin walked away.

He kept his face perfectly normal.

Calm.

Controlled.

Mature.

He reached his seat.

Sat down.

Unlocked his phone.

Looked at the number.

Locked it.

Three seconds passed.

He unlocked it again.

Still there.

Excellent.

His friend looked at him.

“Why are you smiling?”

Martin immediately stopped smiling.

“I'm not.”

“You are.”

“No.”

“You look stupid.”

“Thank you.”

Martin put his phone face-down on the desk.

Across the classroom, June glanced at him.

She saw Martin's friend saying something.

Martin shoved him lightly.

June shook her head.

Definitely suspicious.

Martin, meanwhile, stared at his phone.

He now had June's number.

The girl with the brown eyes.

The girl he had spent days convincing himself was completely out of his league.

The girl who, unknown to him, had originally given him her workbook because she thought he was bothering her friend.

Neither of them understood the situation correctly.

June thought Martin was some kind of confused flirt.

Martin thought June had been unusually kind to him.

Both were wrong.

And somehow, despite all that misunderstanding, Martin now had her phone number.

He looked at the clock.

Then at his phone.

One question immediately occupied his entire mind.

How long should a normal person wait before texting a girl?

Five minutes felt desperate.

Ten minutes felt obvious.

An hour felt calculated.

Tomorrow felt rude.

Martin frowned.

Love, he was beginning to realise, involved an unreasonable amount of mathematics.

Across the classroom, June had already forgotten about the number.

Martin would think about it for the next six hours.

And that was probably the first sign of how this story was going to go.

Martin had June's phone number.

Before anyone gets excited, this was not a romantic achievement.

There had been no smooth flirting.

No dramatic exchange of numbers.

No give me your number, maybe? followed by shy smiles.

Martin had obtained it through academics.

Which, if you knew Martin, was probably the most predictable route possible.

And now her name sat quietly in his contacts.

June.

Martin looked at it.

Then locked his phone.

Then unlocked it.

Looked again.

Still there.

Wonderful.

Now came the slightly more difficult part.

Actually texting her.

Fortunately, Martin had something better than courage.

He had unfinished lab work.

There were a few pages in the lab record that he needed.

Specific pages.

Important pages.

Academically essential pages.

And June had them.

Martin opened the chat.

This time, he didn't spend twenty minutes deciding between Hi and Hello.

Only seven.

Progress.

Finally, he typed.

Hi... do you have the lab record?

He sent it.

Then waited.

June replied a few minutes later.

Yeah. Why?

Martin sat a little straighter.

Can you send me photos of some pages?

Which pages?

Martin sent the page numbers.

June opened her lab book, found the pages and clicked the photographs.

One.

Two.

Three.

Martin's phone began vibrating.

He opened the pictures.

Clear.

Perfect.

Useful.

He should have said thank you and ended the conversation.

That would have been normal.

Martin had never been particularly interested in normal since June walked into his classroom.

Thank you.

June replied with a simple:

👍

Conversation over.

Or so June thought.

The next day, Martin discovered another page he needed.

Pure coincidence.

Obviously.

Martin: Hi... can you send page 32 also?

June sent it.

Thanks.

The day after that—

Martin: Sorry 😅 page 37?

June stared at her phone.

She looked at the lab book.

Then at the message.

Then back at the lab book.

This boy's academic needs were growing at an alarming rate.

Still, she sent it.

The following evening, Martin opened the chat again.

He typed:

Can you send—

Then stopped.

Even Martin had standards.

He looked at the previous messages.

Page 28.

Page 32.

Page 37.

At this rate, he was going to make June photograph the entire lab book one page at a time.

Martin stared at the chat.

A thought entered his mind.

A very practical thought.

A highly intelligent thought.

And, for once, a thought that didn't involve analysing June's punctuation.

Can I take your lab book tomorrow?

June read the message.

Why?

I'll take printouts of the pages I need.

A pause.

Then another message appeared.

Instead of disturbing you for photos every day 😂

June smiled.

At least he was self-aware.

Okay.

Martin stared at the reply.

Okay.

Such a small word.

Martin was beginning to develop an unhealthy emotional relationship with June's short replies.

The next day, June handed him her lab book.

"Don't lose it."

Martin looked mildly offended.

"I won't."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

June narrowed her eyes.

Martin held the book carefully.

"Your lab book is safe with me."

June looked at him for another second.

"Okay."

And walked away.

Martin looked down at the book.

His friend, sitting nearby, watched the entire exchange.

"Why are you smiling?"

Martin immediately stopped smiling.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I needed this for printouts."

"Okay."

"It's academic."

"I didn't ask."

Martin opened the lab book.

"Strictly academic."

His friend nodded slowly.

"Of course."

Martin ignored him.

Because it was academic.

He genuinely needed the pages.

He genuinely planned to take printouts.

And he genuinely had no ulterior motive.

Probably.

But the lab book had achieved something Martin hadn't.

It had given him a reason to text June.

And once the first awkward messages were out of the way, the next ones became easier.

A question about class.

A complaint about an assignment.

A random observation.

Then—

Did you eat?

June stared at the message.

That was not related to the lab.

She replied anyway.

Yeah.

A few minutes later—

You?

Martin smiled.

That was not related to the lab either.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

The lab book would eventually be returned.

The printouts would eventually be taken.

The pages would stop being needed.

But somehow—

the messages didn't stop.

And neither of them noticed exactly when they ran out of academic excuses.

They simply kept talking.