The classroom was eerily quiet, the air thick with an uneasy silence as Laila continued her lecture.

  "A man was standing on the rooftop, his heart pounding against his ribs. Behind him, another man yelled—furious, accusing. And then, without thinking, he pushed him off."

  She paused, letting the words settle before posing the question:

  "Why did he do it?"

  ''Was he a killer by nature, or was he just an ordinary person caught in a moment of madness?".

  ''Did he even realize what he had done?".

  Laila was the crime psychology teacher, but because there were only a handful of students enrolled in psychology, she often ended up substituting for other subjects. Today, their math teacher was absent, so Laila had taken over the class.

  And instead of math, they got a full-fledged crime psychology discussion.

  Recently, crime rates in town had surged, and she probably thought she was raising awareness, but giving them homework on the topic? That was just like her. Laila had a habit of oversharing the darkest parts of her subject. One time, she casually explained how some murderers killed without reason, just to satisfy themselves. Another day, she described how even the most normal people could lose control and kill if pushed too far. And today, her example lingered in his mind like an unsettling shadow.

  he couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow, she was talking about—

  "Hey, what are you doing for the homework?"

  Jack’s voice snapped him out of my thoughts. He leaned forward from behind, whispering just loud enough for him to hear.

  "I’ll figure something out," he muttered, turning to glance at him.

  Jack, however, had other plans. He pulled out his notebook from his bag and shoved it toward him.

  "Do mine too, please."

  he sighed, already knowing he wouldn’t be able to refuse.

  After class, he went to my locker to grab his PT shoes. That’s when he noticed Laila standing outside the classroom, her usual composed expression in place. He hesitated for a moment before handing my bag to Jack and walking toward her.

  She turned her gaze to him, offering a polite smile. "Zayn?"

  He opened his mouth, ready to ask her something that had been nagging at him since her lecture, but he couldn't speak. he noticed Lily approaching from the other side of the hallway.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Laila tilted her head slightly. "What is it, Zayn?"

  he hesitated, then changed his question.

  "Umm… I wanted to ask you something," he said, his voice suddenly uncertain.

  Laila arched an eyebrow, waiting.

  But with Lily now standing just a few steps away, he wasn’t sure if he could ask what he wanted to.

  Zayn heard muffled noises coming from outside his room. Is someone fighting?

  He stepped out of his bedroom, only to find his mother standing near the door. She turned to him, her expression firm, and gestured for him to stay inside. But curiosity gnawed at him. Instead of listening, he casually walked toward the kitchen.

  Opening the fridge, he grabbed a water bottle to make it seem like he had come out for a drink. He set a glass on the counter and began pouring the water slowly, using the moment to glance outside.

  Through the kitchen window, he saw the neighbors gathered near the street, their voices raised in an argument. Among them stood her—expressionless, simply watching the chaos unfold. His eyes lingered on her for a moment before shifting back to the arguing figures. What’s going on?

  Leaning against the counter, he tried to catch bits of the conversation.

  But then—his mother’s sharp gaze caught him. She had been watching him all along.

  Zayn quickly looked away, pretending he hadn’t noticed her. He grabbed the glass, took a sip, and left the kitchen, heading straight back to his room before she could say anything.

  Later that night, after dinner, Zayn went to Lateen’s room. If there was any gossip worth knowing, she’d have it.

  As expected, she smirked the moment she saw him. "You want to know what happened this afternoon, don’t you?"

  Zayn sighed. "Just tell me."

  "Alright, let’s start from the beginning." She leaned in, her tone filled with unnecessary drama. "Around two or two-thirty, that woman Eva—you know, the one who lives next door—"

  "Yeah, I know Eva," he interrupted impatiently.

  "Good. Well, she was talking to Mr. Warner, the owner of this area, right in front of his house. And then boom—out of nowhere, a flower pot from his balcony falls straight onto his head!" She made a dramatic gesture as if reenacting the impact.

  Zayn raised an eyebrow. "What?"

  "There was blood everywhere! His wife came running out, screaming her lungs out. The whole neighborhood gathered. Some people rushed him to the hospital, while others just stood there arguing about how the pot even fell in the first place. Stupidity, right?"

  Zayn frowned. "How did the pot fall?"

  Lateen shrugged. "Probably the wind." She paused, then narrowed her eyes at him. "Wait—don’t tell me you think someone planned this?"

  "Not!" he scoffed, quickly getting up and leaving before she could probe further.

  Back in his room, Zayn stood near the window, gazing at the night sky.

  His room had two windows, but he usually kept one shut—the one facing her house. He didn’t want her thinking he was some creep, watching her every move.

  But tonight… he saw her.

  She stood outside her house, staring up at the sky. The faint glow of the streetlamp cast soft shadows on her figure. She wore black shorts and an oversized white T-shirt, her long hair left untied—something she rarely did. The wind played with her strands, making them dance against the night. Her icy blue eyes gleamed in the dim light, her fair skin illuminated like a quiet mystery in the darkness.

  She was breathtaking.

  Zayn didn’t even realize how intently he was staring until she suddenly turned her head directly toward him.

  And then… she smiled.

  His heart skipped.

  Panic surged through him. He quickly averted his gaze, pretending he hadn’t been watching her. Turning away from the window, he climbed into bed, forcing himself to breathe steadily.

  "Did she see me staring at her? How does she always catch me, even if I look for just a second? How… how?"

  His mind raced with a hundred thoughts. But in the end, he closed his eyes and told himself—

  It was just a coincidence. Just a coincidence.