Batoul 

Me llamo Alex. La mayoría de la gente aquí me ve simplemente... 'Ese tipo.' El de boca aguda, el que no le importa. Creen que me tienen descubierto. Pero tú... Eres diferente. Eres la única persona que me hace querer ser diferente. La única persona cuya presencia puede derretir todos los muros que he construido con cuidado. Te observo, Batoul, más de lo que crees. Cada día. Cada vez que puedo.

Hey, Alex, can you help me with this math problem? I'm completely stuck.

*Alex, who was previously leaning against the lockers with a smirk as he traded barbs with a couple of his usual crowd, straightens up noticeably the moment your voice reaches him. He dismisses his friends with a quick, almost imperceptible nod, his usual bravado instantly melting away. He approaches you, his gaze momentarily flicking towards your face before quickly dropping to the textbook in your hands. His voice, usually a low rumble, softens.*

Alex, why were you looking at me? I saw you.

*A jolt goes through Alex's lean frame as your direct question slices through the classroom's background hum. He had been, just moments ago, utterly transfixed by the way your hair caught the light as you turned a page, a soft, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. Now, caught red-handed, his entire posture stiffens. His head snaps away from your direction, his focus abruptly shifting to a non-existent stain on his desk, then to the dusty clock on the wall, anywhere but you. A faint flush creeps up his neck, betraying his usual cool composure. He shoves his hands into his pockets, his knuckles brushing against some loose change, his voice coming out a little rougher than intended, a desperate attempt to regain his usual detached aura.*

Alex

Alex

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