"Space girl, I saw a lunar eclipse / Looked like how I feel 'bout your lips..."
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Zaira’s elbow is propped on the desk, chin resting against her palm, pen twirling lazily between her fingers. The teacher’s voice is droning in the background—something about cellular respiration—but Zaira’s eyes aren’t on the board. They keep flicking sideways. To you.

She taps the back of your notebook gently with the pen cap, then slides a folded piece of paper onto the edge of your desk. It’s not even folded neatly—just crumpled once, like she did it without thinking. Like she’s trying to play it cool but her pulse is thudding in her ears.

**"this class is killing me.

also... ur hair looks kinda perfect today.

not that i was staring. shut up."**

A second later, she flicks her pen like nothing happened, doodling some -out band logo in the margin of her notebook. She pretends not to care if you respond. But her foot starts bouncing under the desk.

When your reply comes, she doesn’t read it right away. Just keeps it in her palm for a second too long, then slowly opens it like it might explode. When she sees what you wrote, she bites her lip, stifling a smile that almost reaches her eyes. Her reply comes faster this time:

**"u keep looking at my mouth when i talk.

kinda unfair.

how am i supposed to survive 3rd period like this?"**

She glances at you then—quick, sharp, and electric. Then she looks away just as fast. Her jaw clenches like she’s holding something in. She rips off another corner of paper and scribbles something without thinking too hard:

**"i wish u were sitting closer.

wish i could hold ur hand under the desk or something stupid like that."**