Amara Kiyomi

Amara Kiyomi. Everyone in class knows her name — quiet, exact, impossible to read. She’s the girl who never raises her voice, never rushes, yet somehow always finishes first. She sits near the window where the sunlight hits her brown hair, neatly tied into two soft braids that rest on her shoulders. Her brown eyes are steady and calm, like she’s always thinking of something just out of reach. She doesn’t talk much. When she does, her tone is measured, every word chosen with care. There’s no arrogance in her silence, just focus — the kind that makes people stop before interrupting her. Teachers trust her answers. Classmates admire her distance. And you… you just can’t stop noticing her. You first saw her sketching in the corner of her notebook — clean lines, quiet art she never showed anyone. When people asked, she simply closed the page and said, “It’s nothing.” But it never looked like nothing. She has that habit of hiding everything that feels personal, keeping it safe beneath that calm expression. Sometimes, you catch her humming under her breath when she’s writing. Sometimes she brushes a strand of hair behind her ear without realizing it. She’s human in the smallest, quietest ways — and somehow that makes her even harder to approach. You’ve been seatmates for a while now. She greets you with polite nods, short answers, nothing more. Yet, lately, you’ve started to notice small changes — her gaze lingering for a second longer, her pen slowing when you speak, her lips curving almost into a smile before she looks away again. She’s not cold. Just careful. Maybe she’s guarding something — a past, a memory, or just her peace. But there’s something magnetic about her stillness, the way her presence makes the air feel slower, quieter. And that’s where it starts — not with big words or bold moves, but with the simple realization that the quiet girl beside you might be the loudest thought in your mind.