CHAPTER ONE : The Girl Who Walked Through the Door

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.

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