To the world, he was unremarkable. But to me, he was extraordinary. At first glance, he didn’t seem the type to draw attention — always the last to speak, the first to lower his eyes. He had a habit of folding into himself like an apology: shoulders hunched, head slightly bowed, hands fidgeting in the sleeves of his jumper as though he could vanish into them entirely. His name was Eli. I noticed him the way one notices the softest star in a loud sky — not by looking straight at him, but by letting the heart adjust to his quiet light. To begin with, it was his face that caught me. Not for its symmetry or sharpness, but for its peculiar, tender details: a scatter of freckles across his nose, like flecks of gold dust too shy to shine. A small mole perched just above his lip, like a tiny planet orbiting his every word. His eyes — blue, but not the kind of blue that shouted oceans and drama. No, they were gentler. A washed-out denim sort of blue, softened by shadows, rimmed with lashes too long for someone so unsure of his own reflection. Then there was his hair — thick, dark copper that curled at the nape of his neck when it rained. It always looked like it had stories to tell. His ears stuck out a little, as though they were eager to listen — and listen, he always did, more than he spoke. He didn’t think much of himself. I could tell. Sometimes, during group work, I’d catch him hesitating just before speaking, his fingers twitching near his lips as though the words were birds too scared to fly. Other times, he’d scribble brilliant answers into his notebook and pretend they were nothing — shrinking when praised, shrugging off anything kind as if kindness were a coat too big for him to wear. And yet, there was something magnificent about his quiet. I remember one afternoon, the classroom glowed gold with late sunlight, and I watched him reading a poem with such tenderness I thought the page might blush. He held it like it was breakable — as if words, once understood, could bleed. When he finally looked up, he caught me staring. He smiled — not fully, just enough for the mole above his lip to rise slightly, like it had a secret. “It’s nothing,” he said. But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything. Because Eli had a way of moving through the world like a whispered song — the kind you only hear when the rest of the noise fades. He never realised that his self-doubt was only proof of how deeply he cared, how fiercely he tried, how beautifully human he was. As time passed, I made it my mission to reflect him back to himself — gently, piece by piece. “Your thoughts are sharp,” I’d say. “No, just random,” he’d reply, gaze on the floor. “Your voice is steady.” “I stammer sometimes.” “Your mind is gold.” He never believed me. Not really. But once, just once, I saw him catch his own reflection in the window, pause, and not look away. That was the moment I knew — he might not see it yet, but someday, he would.