Stares And Glares

They didn’t speak of Rex again that day.

Not during their quiet study session in the sunlit corner of the library, where the air smelled of dust and ink, and the golden light draped over them like a hush. Not when they shared a snack—half a granola bar passed between them. And certainly not on their walk to the bus stop, when the sun dipped low and painted the pavement with copper light.

It hung there—his name, the weight of it—with lots of unsaid words. They tucked the whole thing away, like a fragile trinket that might break under the strain of too many words.

But silence didn’t stop the world from spinning.

Over the next few days, the wildfire of gossip surrounding Rex and Ann began to reduce—but only slightly. The whispers, once shrill with scandal and disbelief, mellowed into speculation and rumors. The heat didn’t disappear. It only shifted slightly to give room for room. The stares became more focused. More clinical.

More dangerous.

Because something else began to rise beneath the ashes of the dying rumor—attention. Not the fleeting kind that drifted through classrooms, but the kind of rumor that was sharp, focused, calculated attention and harm.

The popular clique—once too absorbed in their glittering lives to notice her—had started to watch her with something more than suspicion. Or maybe it was curiosity. It was hard to tell from the way they behaved but Ann could feel it in various ways. From the glances thrown her way like darts. In the sudden quiet that fell whenever she entered a room. In the slow, deliberate way some of them would turn their heads to track her across a hallway.

As if she was being reevaluated.

Measured.

Like a puzzle piece that had never fit before, but suddenly—now that Rex Radford had looked at her like she mattered—might serve a purpose for his fangirls to see her like a threat and she hated it.

Avirina’s eyes followed her everywhere she went this days. Burning. Daggered. Cold. Her friends leaned in to whisper behind flawless nails, their giggles shrill, artificial, cruel. Every glance felt like a test she didn’t study for and wasn’t ready to write its exams. Every silence rang louder in her ears than their noise.

And worse—worse than any of them—was Rex himself.

He didn’t look away. Never looked away from her when they are in the same space.

In every class they shared, she felt his eyes on her. Watching. Waiting. Unrelenting. It didn’t matter how far across the room she sat. She could be surrounded by people, heads down, notes scratching across paper—and she’d still feel his eyes on her.

Sometimes his gaze were thoughtful. Sometimes distant. Often unreadable. But it was always there. Always steady. Like he was trying to unravel her with his eyes.

It was maddening and annoying at the same time. For someone who hated attention, it was slowly driving her insane.

It burrowed under her skin, made her hyper-aware of every movement. The way she adjusted her sleeve. The way her hair fell across her face. The way her voice sounded when she answered a question. She hated it all. She hated the way he made her feel like she was under a microscope, under constant observation.

But he never said a word to her.

The pressure built slowly. Quietly. Like steam behind a closed door. Day after day. Until one afternoon—hot and heavy with the sun beating down on the university buildings like punishment—she snapped.

The lecture hall had been unbearable. Ceiling fans that only stirred the heat. A professor droning in front of the whiteboard while Ann sat rigid in her seat, the skin behind her neck prickling, because she knew he was watching. Again.

By the time class ended, her chest felt too tight. Her hands were shaking.

She pushed her chair back hard, grabbed her things, and walked out fast—fast enough to make people stare, fast enough to feel like she was running from something she couldn’t name or maybe she just refused to name him.

But she knew he’d follow. He always did.

She felt him before she heard him. That same pressure. That same presence.

She didn’t slow down. She turned the corner behind the lecture building, where it was quieter, more secluded. Her boots struck the pavement with angry rhythm.

Then she stopped.

Spun around.

And finally—finally—she let it out.

“Enough!” she snapped, her voice slicing through the stillness like glass.

Rex froze a few paces away. His expression didn’t change. Calm. Still. Silent.

Ann’s chest rose and fell quickly. Her hands trembled, but her eyes were sharp and furious.

“Oh, I’ve had enough, Rex—whatever your full name is. I’m fucking done! And this staring contest ends today!”

He blinked once. No retreat. No defense.

“You’ve been staring at me in class like I’m some kind of science experiment. You’ve got people hating me—more than they already did. I can’t walk ten feet without someone whispering or glaring or laughing behind their hand.”

Her voice pitched higher, strained. “And you! You just sit there like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. You don’t speak to me, you don’t explain anything, you don’t even blink half the time—you just look at me like I’m supposed to get it.”

She took a breath, stumbled a step forward.

“Well, I don’t get it.”

The words were a punch. Her throat was tight, her palms balled into fists.

“I don’t want your attention, Rex. I don’t want the stares or the rumors or the way girls are glaring like they want me dead. I don’t want to walk into class and feel your eyes on me like I’m being dissected. I don’t want this.”

Her voice cracked now, but she didn’t back down.

“I was invisible before you.”

The silence thickened. Rex didn’t move. His gaze hadn’t left hers.

“And I liked it,” she continued, quieter now. “It was quiet. Peaceful. Safe.”

She took a trembling breath, the sun baking her shoulders, the heat sticking her shirt to her back.

“So just…” She stepped closer, fire in her voice again. “Just come clean. What do you want from me?”

She stared at him, unblinking, chest heaving. The question rang between them, loud and unforgiving.

And still—he said nothing.

His jaw was tight. His eyes unreadable. Not cold. Not warm. Just unreadable.

His silence filled the space between them like smoke. Dense. Suffocating.

Her heart pounded louder with every second he didn’t speak.

Nothing.

She waited.

A breeze stirred, lifting a strand of her hair against her cheek.

Still—nothing.

That silence? It wasn’t just maddening now. It was cruel.

Ann’s lip trembled, but she didn’t let the tears come.

She clenched her jaw, straightened her spine.