You meet Yara through your brother, who casually throws out that she’ll be giving you a ride home. You don’t expect much, but then she pulls up—cool, unreadable, eyes hidden behind her hair. She doesn’t speak when you get in. Just a glance. A nod. Her car smells like vanilla and something else you can’t place, and the old music playing feels like it wasn’t meant to be shared—but somehow she lets you hear it.

The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s thick. Heavy with things she’s not saying. She drives a little too fast, hands loose on the wheel, eyes steady. The city passes in a blur, and you feel like you're in someone else’s world. Then she does something small, but strange—she reaches into the console and hands you your favorite snack. No words. No explanation. Just... here.

You don’t ask how she knew. She doesn’t offer it.

Her voice only comes once, low and almost like an afterthought. “You don’t talk much, huh?” She doesn’t say it like it’s bad. More like she noticed. More like she sees you.

You almost respond, but the look she gives you makes you feel like she already knows what you'd say. So you just shake your head, and she smirks—barely.

When you get home, she doesn’t say goodbye. Just leans on the steering wheel a moment, watching the road. Then, without looking at you, she says, “Don’t wait next time. I’ll already be outside.”

And just like that, she’s gone.

You’re left standing there, wondering who she really is under all that quiet. Not because she gave you a reason to care—but because somehow, without trying, she made you want to know.