always sat on the last bench.
Not because I liked it,
but because it felt safer to be there.
From the last bench, no one expected anything from me.
Teachers rarely asked questions.
Classmates rarely noticed me.
I could exist without explanation.
The classroom window was beside my seat.
Outside it, a cherry blossom tree stood quietly.
In spring, its petals fell slowly,
as if they had nowhere important to go.
I liked watching them.
Some days, I counted how many petals passed the window
before the bell rang.
Other days, I just watched without counting.
It was easier than talking to people.
I had no friends.
Not the kind you talk to after school.
Not the kind who save a seat for you at lunch.
Not even the kind who borrow your notes.
People knew my name.
That was all.
Sometimes I wondered if that even mattered.
The classroom always smelled the same.
Chalk dust.
Old wooden desks.
Something faintly damp, like yesterday's rain.
Spring made everything softer.
The teacher was writing something on the board.
I didn't read it.
My eyes were outside again.
Petals fell.
One after another.
Slowly.
I thought about how strange it was that something so beautiful
could fall without anyone caring where it landed.
That was when the door slid open.
The sound was sharp.
Different from the quiet scratching of chalk.
Everyone turned around.
I didn't.
New students always arrived the same way.
A short introduction.
A few curious stares.
Then life continued.
It had nothing to do with me.
"Class, we have a transfer student."
I heard the teacher's voice, distant and flat.
I kept my eyes on the window.
Pink petals.
A light breeze.
Then the teacher said her name.
It was soft.
But it stayed.
She walked in slowly.
I saw her reflection in the window before I saw her directly.
A shadow moving behind me.
The teacher looked around the classroom.
"There's an empty seat," he said.
I felt it before I understood it.
The air beside me changed.
"She can sit there."
I turned.
She was standing next to my desk.
For a moment, she didn't sit down.
She just looked at the chair.
Then she looked at me.
Her eyes were calm.
Not curious.
Not judging.
Just… present.
"Is this seat taken?" she asked.
Her voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
I shook my head.
"No."
That was all I managed to say.
She sat down beside me.
Just like that.
The classroom felt smaller.
Not in a bad way.
Just different.
I could hear her breathing.
Quiet and steady.
I didn't look at her again.
I stared straight ahead, pretending to listen.
My heart was loud.
She placed her bag carefully under the desk.
Took out a notebook.
A pen.
Everything she did felt unhurried.
As if she had all the time in the world.
The teacher continued the lesson.
Words filled the room.
I didn't understand any of them.
I was too aware of the space between us.
She was beside me.
At first, nothing happened.
Minutes passed.
Then she leaned slightly closer.
Not touching.
Just close enough that I noticed.
"You like cherry blossoms?" she asked.
I froze.
No one had ever asked me that before.
I nodded.
"Yes."
My voice sounded strange.
Like it didn't belong to me.
"They're beautiful," she said.
"But also a little sad."
I didn't know how to respond.
So I stayed quiet.
She smiled.
Not because she expected an answer.
Just because silence didn't bother her.
The bell rang.
Chairs scraped against the floor.
Students stood up.
I stayed seated.
I always waited until the room was half empty.
She didn't leave.
She turned to me.
"I'm glad I'm sitting here," she said.
I looked at her.
"Why?" I asked.
She thought for a moment.
"Because it's quiet," she said.
"And I like quiet."
I didn't know what to say.
She stood up.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said.
Then she left.
I stayed seated long after everyone else had gone.
The classroom felt different now.
The cherry blossom tree outside was still there.
But something had shifted.
The next day, she came early.
She was already sitting when I arrived.
"Good morning," she said.
"Good morning," I replied.
That became our routine.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing special.
Just small words.
She told me her name.
I told her mine.
She asked about my classes.
I answered briefly.
She never pushed.
Days passed.
Spring deepened.
Petals fell faster.
One afternoon, it rained.
The petals stuck to the window.
She watched them silently.
Then she spoke.
"Do you ever feel like time moves too fast?" she asked.
I thought about it.
"No," I said.
"I think it moves without waiting."
She smiled again.
"That's a good way to say it."
During lunch breaks, she stayed in the classroom with me.
She didn't ask why I didn't go outside.
She didn't suggest we eat together.
She just sat beside me and read.
Once, our hands touched by accident.
I pulled mine away immediately.
She noticed.
"Sorry," I said.
"It's okay," she replied.
"You don't have to be scared."
I didn't tell her that I wasn't scared of her.
I was scared of myself.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
Summer came.
The cherry blossom tree turned green.
I still watched it.
She watched it with me.
One day, she held out her hand.
"Friends?" she asked.
I stared at it.
My hands were shaking.
No one had ever done this before.
Slowly, carefully,
I reached out and held her hand.
She smiled.
Not wide.
Not loud.
Just enough.
That was how our friendship began.
Quietly.
Beside each other.
I didn't know then
that two years later,
in the middle of winter,
we would stand far apart
and finally say
what we had been avoiding.
But for now,
spring continued.
And she was beside me.