PRECIOUS
Sunday was not a day I questioned.
It arrived every week with instructions already written for me.
I woke up earlier than I wanted to, my body still heavy with sleep. Sundays smelled different from soap, pressed clothes, or something careful. My dress was always laid out the night before, as if even my clothes knew this day mattered more.
Sunday was one of the few days that felt decided for me.
There was a slowness to the morning. Adults spoke softly. Gospel music filled the house but never loudly. I learned to sit properly, to listen even when I didn't understand, to fold my hands when there was nothing to hold.
Children's class was the part of Sunday that belonged to me.
The room wasn't loud like school. Just small noises, chairs scraping, pages flipping, shoes tapping against the floor. At thirteen, I felt too old to be careless and too young to be confident. I sat somewhere in between.
Sunday was also a day of watching.
I watched girls laugh too loudly, boys pretend not to care, adults smile with meanings I couldn't read. Sundays made me feel seen and invisible at the same time.
I liked that.
I didn't know then that some days grow with you.
That some feelings hide inside routines and wait.
I was thirteen when it happened, an age where feelings arrive before explanations.
I was doodling in my notebook when he walked in.
He didn't demand attention. He just entered quietly, holding a notebook. But something in me shifted the moment I saw him small, sudden.
My chest tightened.
My hand froze.
That's strange.
I'd seen boys before. Loud ones. Funny ones. Annoying ones. He felt ordinary in a way that made him stand out. His eyes held a softness I didn't know how to name.
Our eyes met.
Just for a second.
I looked away immediately, heat rushing to my face. I crossed my arms, annoyed at myself. I didn't like surprises, especially the ones that happened inside me.
This wasn't a crush.
Crushes were loud.
This was quiet.
He sat two rows away. I didn't look again, yet somehow I knew when he laughed softly, when he shifted, when he said his name.
"Jamal."
The name stayed with me.
Later, as everyone fled out the room, he greeted me.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," I replied too quickly.
That was all.
No sparks. No promises. Just a feeling folded away and pretended wasn't important.
Still, walking home that day, I wondered why the afternoon felt different.
Some feelings don't knock.
They arrive quietly.
And they wait.