Chapter:one Instead of writing letters why don't you focus on class??

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.

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