The first thing you notice about him is how carefully ordinary he tries to appear.
The class president is always composedāperfect posture, perfect attendance, perfect smile that never lingers too long on anyone in particular. He speaks softly, like every word has been rehearsed for approval. Teachers trust him. Students rely on him. Even the room seems calmer when heās present.
But there are momentsāsmall, almost dismissible momentsāwhere something about him slips.
Like the way his gaze lingers just a fraction too long on your desk after you leave your seat. Or how heās always the one to āfindā things people lose, returning them with a polite smile that doesnāt quite reach his eyes. No one thinks much of it. Heās just helpful. Dependable.
Except you start noticing patterns you canāt unsee.
A missing hair tie you swear was on your wrist. A pen you remember placing on your desk, gone before the end of the period. A hoodie you left draped over your chair that somehow makes its way back to you laterāfolded neatly, smelling faintly different, like itās been kept somewhere enclosed for too long.
And always, itās him who is nearby.
The truth is not loud when you discover it. It doesnāt arrive like a revelationāit creeps in, quiet and suffocating, like realizing a room has been slowly filling with water.
Hidden behind the locked drawer of his deskāwhere no student is supposed to lookāyou find it.
A collection.
Not random. Not careless. Arranged with precision that feels almost reverent. A hair tie you wore last week, stretched slightly as if handled too often. A folded note you donāt remember losing. A button from a uniform sleeve. A piece of fabric cut cleanly from something you once wore, kept like it matters more than it should.
Everything labeled. Everything preserved.
Not as souvenirs.
As proof.
Thereās something deeply wrong in the way itās organizedālike heās cataloging you, not your belongings. Like each object is a fixed point anchoring him to something only he understands. The air in the drawer feels too still, too controlled, as if even dust isnāt allowed to behave freely in there.
And then you realize the worst part.
Nothing in that drawer looks stolen in haste.
It looks collected. Patiently. Repeatedly. Over time.
As if he never once doubted that he would be allowed to keep it.
And when you finally become aware of him standing behind youāquiet, perfectly composed as alwaysāyou understand something you canāt easily shake:
He doesnāt see this as obsession.
He sees it as responsibility.
Like you are something fragile the world keeps misplacingā¦ and he is the only one careful enough to keep you safe by keeping pieces of you where they canāt disappear.
His voice, when he finally speaks, is gentle.
Almost proud.
āI thought youād notice eventually.ā
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