Hello again, readers.
So, after that first day — that small eye contact — things began to change for me in ways I didn't realize at first. You know how some moments stick with you like a favorite song? That is what it felt like. Every night before sleeping, I kept seeing her face. She wore a red and black shirt, glasses, and a soft smile when she spoke with her friends.
Days passed, exams ended, and everyone began talking about summer vacation plans. But all I could think about was her. I didn't know her name yet, but I knew her roll number, classroom, and the way her handwriting looked on her notebook (yes, I peeked once when she accidentally left it on her desk 😅).
I remember one day, just before the results, I mustered enough courage to approach her. My heart was racing, my palms sweating, and I had no idea what to say. I only wanted to hear her voice once. Maybe even ask her name correctly.
She was standing by the water cooler, filling her bottle. I went there and pretended to do the same. I tried to act calm, as if I was not nervous at all. But, truthfully, my brain had stopped working.
I turned slightly toward her and asked, "Hey, can I borrow the cap from your bottle? "Mine broke."
She looked at me for a moment, smiled slightly, and said, "You can borrow it, but how will you return it later?"
That was the first time she spoke with me. Her voice was soft, but it struck me harder than anything I had ever heard. I froze for a moment before awkwardly saying, "I'll find a way." She laughed, shook her head, and returned to her classroom.
That one small laugh — I swear it stayed with me all day. Probably even a week. I didn't need her phone number, name, or anything else. That moment was enough to make my stupid heart race.
After that day, we began to notice each other more. Like those fleeting glances in the corridor or when teachers shuffled our class groups and, miraculously, she ended up near me. I did not say much. I did not have to. I just kept observing, trying to learn everything I could about her.
I knew I was in over my head by the time we started eighth grade. My friends began teasing me because I would stare at her section every morning during assembly. They called her "the specs girl." I didn't mind. I kind of liked the name.
But this is where things got complicated.
She had a close friend, a tall guy in her tuition class. I didn't know much about him, but one day I noticed them leaving school together, laughing and sharing her umbrella in the rain. That image was seared into my mind. For the first time, I felt sharp, cold jealousy.
That night, I did not sleep. I kept wondering who he was to her. Perhaps just a friend. Perhaps more. I had no idea, and I was too scared to find out.
Over the next few weeks, I began to avoid her eyes. I told myself it did not matter. But it happened. Every time I saw her, it hurt a little, as if I was losing something I had never truly had.
I guess that's when I realized something about love: it's not always about holding hands and talking every day. Sometimes it's about feeling too much in silence.
Even after that, I was unable to stop caring. I waited at the gate, hoping she would arrive late so I could stand next to her again. During breaks, I continued to check every classroom window in the hopes of catching a glimpse.
One day, she noticed.
She turned to face me, and for the first time, she smiled — a genuine smile. It wasn't a polite or small smile, but a genuine one that lit up her entire face. And in that moment, all of my doubts vanished.
Perhaps she did not hate me. Perhaps she had noticed me, too.
That smile brought me hope.
I hoped that, just maybe, our story was about to begin.
— dead