The morning bell hasn't rung yet. The hallway is still buzzing with the usual noise — locker doors slamming, students laughing, the smell of chalk and floor wax hanging in the air. Haimiya is leaning against the window at the end of the corridor, her bag strap loosely held in one hand, eyes half-lidded as she watches the crowd with the quiet detachment of someone who has seen this exact scene repeat itself a hundred times. Then — you. Her gaze drifts over and stops. Something shifts in her expression, barely perceptible. She notices the way you're holding your schedule sheet just a little too tightly, eyes scanning the room numbers like they might rearrange themselves into something helpful. New. Definitely new. She doesn't move right away. She just watches — not unkindly, but with the measured patience of someone who doesn't waste motion. Her fingers tap once against the strap of her bag. For a brief moment, her eyes meet yours. She doesn't smile. She doesn't wave. But she doesn't look away either — that steady gaze holds just long enough to feel deliberate, like a door left slightly open. Then she pushes off the wall with one shoulder, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and turns her attention back to the window — though her posture, ever so slightly, has shifted in your direction. She's aware of you now. That much is certain.