I was letting him too close to me, and I think I should not.
It felt good though, having someone invade my personal space like they've always belonged there. I felt like sharing whatnot with him, but again, I was too scared to open up this fast.
But he is gentle with me. Never rushes anything. Gives me time to process and accept and he always wait. Patiently.
It is what attracted me honestly.
His calm and gentle nature towards me. Like I am glass doll and I'll break if rushed with it.
I liked it.
One day, there were flowers on my seat in class.
White lilies — my favourite.
Not roses, not daisies, not anything loud. Just lilies, quiet and perfect.
There wasn't a note. No name.
But somehow, I knew.
It was a cute gesture to bring my favourite flowers but it was strange somehow. The strangest part wasn't that he knew what I liked — it was that I had never told him.
Not once.
I hadn't told anyone.
I tried to brush it out and say "it was just his luck". A coincidence. The universe's small act of mischief.
After all he is trying his best to impress me, isn't he?
But then there were other things.
Like...
A playlist on my phone one evening — songs I'd listened to in high school, the ones I used to fall asleep to when I couldn't stop my thoughts from running wild.
Another time, a book appeared in my locker, secondhand, worn at the corners — the same edition I'd once borrowed from the library and returned late.
He never mentioned any of it.
He didn't have to.
He'd just look at me with that quiet, knowing expression, as if he could already hear what I wasn't saying.
I found it sweet.
It was actually sweet. Felt genuine.
Who wouldn't? Someone remembering the tiniest pieces of you — things even you'd forgotten.
It felt like being understood without having to explain.
He made it seem effortless — the way he always guessed right, always showed up at the exact moment I needed someone to.
He'd hand me an umbrella when rain began to fall, a cup of tea when I was too tired to talk.
"How do you always know?" I'd ask sometimes, half teasing.
He'd only shrug. "You're easy to read."
And I'd laugh, pretending that was all it was.
But at night, when I was alone, I'd replay our moments in my head — every word, every look.
And something about them felt rehearsed.
As if he already knew my answers before I spoke.
Still, I couldn't stay away.
He was gravity, and I'd already begun to lean in.
When we met, time always slowed. His voice softened when he said my name, and there was this rare calm that settled over me, the kind I'd been chasing my whole life.
He didn't just look at me — he studied me.
Like I was a puzzle he already knew how to solve.
And maybe that's why I didn't see it then. Maybe I didn't wanted to.
Maybe that's why I mistook obsession for care, precision for affection. Or maybe it was my overthinking.
Yeah, I do that a lot.
Because when you've been unseen for too long, being known feels a lot like love.