Two Worlds Between us

Lua ​​never liked sitting in the front during classes. Because she was a scholarship student, she preferred to go unnoticed and sat at the back of the room, where she could immerse herself in her thoughts without anyone noticing. It was her safe place, a strategic position to observe the world without getting too involved. But that day, something different caught her attention.

Him.

Barron Trump.

It was impossible not to notice his presence: Tall and imposing.

During the Political Philosophy class, while the professor was talking about Rousseau, Lua watched him out of the corner of her eye. Barron was sitting near the window, his gaze lost in the landscape outside, his fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the cover of his book.

Something in his expression caught her attention. It wasn't just boredom-Lua knew how to recognize boredom. It was something deeper, something that seemed to weigh on him like a cloud.

She turned her attention back to the professor, trying to focus, but she couldn't. Her eyes kept returning to Barron. He seemed to carry a kind of sadness in his eyes.

"Why would someone like him be like this?" Lua thought. To her, he was the picture of a perfect life: rich, influential family, all the doors open. But here, in that room, he seemed so distant.

During the break, she saw him again, sitting alone on a bench in the courtyard. Barron was reading a book-something dense and old, by the looks of it-while the world around him continued indifferent to his presence.

Lua ​​couldn't help herself. She approached slowly, trying not to seem intrusive. As she passed him, she risked a quick glance at the title of the book: Notes from Underground, by Dostoevsky.

"Interesting choice," she said, before stopping herself.

Barron looked up, surprised, but not defensive. He seemed to measure his words before answering:

"It's a good reflection of human complexity." Or at least that's what I say to justify my taste for tragedies.

Lua ​​laughed, a soft sound that broke the silence.

"Deep sadness is the best story."

Barron watched her for a moment. Finally, he closed the book and said:

"Maybe. But I prefer it when it's not mine."

She felt a tightness in her chest when she heard that. For the first time, Lua saw through him, as if his words were a key to what he was trying to hide. And, in that moment, she knew she wanted to understand more about Barron Trump-the boy who seemed to carry the weight of a world that wasn't just his.

The conversation didn't last long. Barron soon returned to his book, and Lua, respecting his silence, walked away. But, as she walked back to the classroom, she felt that something had changed.

And the next day, during class, there she was again, watching him in silence. This time, not just curious, but trying to decipher the mysteries he hid behind that melancholic gaze.

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As the evening approaches, Lua wanders through persistent thoughts about him. Barron. So she picks up her diary and begins to write:

Today, once again, my eyes got lost in him. I can't explain what it is that draws me in so much, but there's something about Barron Trump that's impossible to ignore. He's like an old book: the cover is pretty, well-kept, but the contents seem full of notes in the margins, folded pages, stories that no one else knows.

He has this gray aura, like a cloudy day about to rain. Not in the sad sense, but as something full of possibilities that people ignore, cause they don't give enough attention.

The way he speaks is restrained, as if he's afraid of saying the wrong thing or being misunderstood. But when he finally answers, his words have a depth that leaves me speechless.

I see someone who observes the world more than participates in it. He intrigues me, cause even all of this, he seems kind, almost sweet, as if there's something inside waiting to be discovered.

Why does this matter so much to me? I don't know. Maybe because it reminds me a little of myself: someone who is always trying to decipher the world, but who has never had anyone who wanted to decipher it.

Anyway, here I am, writing about him again. Maybe tomorrow I'll have more answers. Or maybe more questions. All I know is that I want to keep looking at him and, who knows, find out what lies beyond this silence.

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Song to hear: every breath you take