Chapter 11: A Change in the Front Row

The classroom fell into an expectant silence as the door creaked open, drawing every student's gaze toward the entrance. The usual hum of conversation ceased, replaced by a palpable curiosity as Adrien and Lila stepped inside.

Adrien, poised and effortlessly charming, guided the new girl beside him with a gentleness that felt like something out of a romance movie. Every step he took, every small movement — the way he placed her crutch against the wall like it was something precious — all of it looked... rehearsed. Perfect. Like he was meant to be her hero.

Marinette watched from her desk in the second row, her heart beginning to pound, though she didn't know why. Something in the way he hovered near this girl — this stranger — unsettled her. There was care in his touch. Focus. A softness that Marinette had long hoped he might one day show her.

Then he turned to Nino.

"Hey, Nino," Adrien said, calm and sincere. "Would it be alright if you moved to another seat for a week? Lila needs to sit in the front because of her ankle."

Marinette froze.

Wait... what?

The world didn't tilt, but it might as well have.

Nino gave a shrug and a smile — "Sure. Do you want me to sit next to Alya?" — and just like that, he was up, gathering his things. Like it didn't mean anything. Like everything wasn't suddenly upside down.

Marinette's heart dropped straight into her stomach.

The implication hit her like a slap: she would have to move. She would be the one bumped to the back. Out of sight. Out of reach. Away from Adrien.

Her prime seat — the one she had silently treasured, the one where she could memorize the way Adrien tilted his head when he was thinking or smiled when he daydreamed — was being taken.

By her.

Marinette sat motionless, her mind spiraling. The girl hadn't just sprained her ankle. She'd somehow sprained herself right into Marinette's life, stealing the spotlight, the front row, and maybe... Adrien's heart?

No. That's ridiculous. This isn't a romance drama. This is just... bad luck.

But no matter how she tried to reason it away, the pang in her chest wouldn't leave. Every moment Adrien spent adjusting the crutch, every smile he gave the new girl as she settled into his old seat, felt like another twist of the knife.

Alya noticed the storm brewing behind Marinette's forced smile. She leaned over, concern flickering in her eyes.

"Hey, Marinette," she said gently, placing a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder. "I know it's not ideal, but it's just for a week. Maybe we can find a way to make it work?"

Marinette nodded with a tight, wobbly smile that fooled no one.

"Yeah... just a week," she murmured, her voice hollow. "It's fine. Totally fine."

It wasn't fine.

Her hands trembled as she began to gather her things, each motion deliberate, as though she were bracing herself for a great personal tragedy. She slid her books into her bag with robotic precision, as if packing away her last shred of dignity.

Around her, the classroom buzzed with excitement, laughter, whispered questions about the new girl. Lila. Lila who had Adrien's attention. Lila who now sat where Marinette had watched him so closely for so long.

Marinette stood, her movements slow, like she was walking through water. Her gaze flicked forward, past rows of heads, to where Adrien was now gently tucking Lila's crutch beside her desk with almost absurd care.

It was too much.

The walk to the back of the room might as well have been a march of exile. Each step took her farther from him — from the warmth of his presence, from every daydream she'd built from glances and shared moments. Her old seat had been a front-row view into the life she wanted. Her new seat? A reminder that she was just... background.

She dropped into her chair at the back of the room like she was falling into a void.

From here, Adrien was barely visible. His golden hair, once illuminated in the sunlight that streamed through the front window, now glowed from behind silhouettes and shadows. The crutch was propped just so. Lila sat in Marinette's old spot, looking relaxed. Happy. As if she belonged there.

No, Marinette thought, her jaw tight. This isn't how it's supposed to go. This isn't her story.

But she said nothing.

Instead, she stared at her desk, the wood suddenly dull and lifeless, and tried to pretend it didn't matter. That her heart wasn't breaking in slow motion. That she hadn't just been quietly pushed to the margins of her own life.

All over a crutch.