I was an introvert long before I knew the word for it.
I had been pampered growing up, protected enough that I never really learned how to rely on myself— or let others rely on me. People rarely counted on me, and I never expected them to. Somewhere along the way, silence became easier than confidence.
I also believed I was mature.
Or at least, I wanted to be.
I watched people my age act careless, loud, childish, and decided early on that I wouldn't be like that. I avoided anything that felt immature—not because I was wiser, but because I was afraid of being seen the wrong way. Staying reserved felt safer. Controlled. Grown.
And So, I don't remember most things from my past. Faces fade easily, conversations disappear, and entire years blur together without leaving much behind. I've always been like that—quiet, distant, more comfortable observing than speaking. Being alone never felt strange to me. It was simply how my life worked.
That's why the feeling unsettled me.
I saw her one day and thought I had seen her before. Not in any specific place, not in a memory I could trace back to something real—just a vague familiarity that didn't belong to me. It made no sense. I wasn't someone who noticed people, and I definitely wasn't someone who imagined connections where none existed. Yet the thought stayed, stubborn and quiet, like it was waiting for me to acknowledge it.
I noticed her more as days passed—not intentionally, but naturally. She stood out without trying. When she became the vice captain of our class, I didn't think much of it at first. Titles never impressed me. But I started observing her in small moments.
During class calls, she would write down the names of students who talked. Most vice captains would hand the list straight to the teacher. She didn't. More often than not, she'd crumple the paper or toss it away. Even when the teacher insisted, she only submitted names if someone went too far. First and second offenses were usually forgiven.
I remember finding that strangely… adorable.
Not cute in a loud way. Quietly kind.
I didn't interact much with my classmates, so it surprised me when one day I opened the class WhatsApp group. People were complaining about her—calling her "Lady Hitler," a jerk, a teacher's pet. Reading those messages made something tighten in my chest.
Not because it was her.
Because it felt wrong.
At that time, my sense of justice was simple but strong. Say what you want openly, or don't say it at all. Don't tear someone down behind their back when they're just doing their duty. Without thinking too much, I typed my first message in that group. Then another. Then another. I defended the vice captain, word after word, replying to people I usually ignored.
A few minutes later, my phone buzzed.
It was her.
"Thank you," she texted.
I replied honestly. I told her I only did what I felt was right. But the conversation didn't end there. She opened up slowly—about how difficult it was to stand between responsibility and friendships, about how tiring it was to be strict and still be misunderstood, about how often she heard people talk behind her back.
I listened. And for the first time, I felt useful.
I told her she was doing her job. That she didn't need to please everyone. That some roles were lonely by nature, and that didn't make her wrong. We talked for a long time that night—longer than I was used to talking to anyone.
Before leaving, she said, "Thank you so much."
Then added, "Good night. Dream the sweetest."
I remember staring at my phone longer than necessary, feeling something warm rise to my face. I didn't have a name for that feeling. I still don't think it was love. But it was new—and it stayed with me.
From that day on, we texted almost every day. Conversations flowed easily there, in that quiet digital space where my shyness couldn't interrupt me. Sometimes we joked about how I barely spoke to her in class, how I didn't even look her way. She said it made her a little sad. I joked about finally talking to her someday, even though I failed every time the chance appeared.
Until once, I didn't.
After class, while walking home, our paths crossed. She approached me first. I managed a greeting, my voice shaky but present. We talked—just a little. She had a friend with her, so the moment stayed short. Still, it mattered.
When we separated, she turned back, waved her hand high in the air, and called out,
"Bye-bye, Eshan!"
She smiled when she said it.
That image—her wave, her voice, that smile—burned itself into my memory in a way nothing else ever had. And even then, I didn't realize it, but something had already begun.