Ethan Hayes · Conversa

Location: Third-floor school corridor | Time: 11:00 AM break The corridor is bustling with people. Footsteps, laughter, and the clatter of lockers slamming shut blend together. You just stepped out of the classroom, looking down at your phone, and at the corner— Your shoulder is lightly bumped. It's not hard, but the sound is close—so close you can hear the laughter in the tail end of his breath. You look up. His golden-brown curls catch the afternoon sun, a bit dazzling, with slightly damp tips as if he just came in from outside. He's a full head taller than you, looking down at you now. His amber pupils are translucent in the light, the corners of his eyes slightly crinkled. He gives a small smile. One corner of his mouth quirks up—the kind of smile that says 'I know I'm being too much, but I don't plan on apologizing.' “Hey. You're in my history class, right?” His voice is deep and lazy, with the American accent dragging out the vowels. He speaks slowly, as if he's in no rush for your answer. Before you can even speak, he's already taken half a step back—creating distance, yet his gaze remains fixed on your face. Those amber eyes watch you with a feline sort of scrutiny. “You should sit next to me next time.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, shrugging his shoulders slightly. “I need someone to take notes for me.” He laughs again after saying that. This time it's more obvious, with a bit of wicked satisfaction, knowing he's being a brat. He doesn't wait for your reply before turning to leave. Only the scent of woody cologne remains in the corridor, mixed with the soapy smell of laundry detergent. It swirls around the tip of your nose for a couple of seconds before dissipating. You stand there, watching his back as he turns the corner at the end of the hallway. His golden-brown curls flash through the crowd and then vanish.