I don't remember when it started.
Maybe it was the day she laughed too hard at something the teacher said, or the way she always tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous. All I know is that somewhere between the first bell and the last, my heart learned her name before my mouth ever dared to say it.
Her name is Amara.
She sits two rows ahead of me, by the window. The sunlight always finds her first, like it knows she belongs to it. I sit behind her, close enough to notice the small things how she taps her pen when she's thinking, how she bites her lip when she's confused, how her shoulders stiffen whenever the teacher calls her name.
She has no idea I exist beyond being another uniform in the classroom.
And maybe that's why I write.
The notebook stays hidden at the bottom of my bag, beneath old textbooks and folded worksheets. It's nothing special plain cover, slightly torn edges but inside it lives everything I can't say out loud.
Dear Amara,
Today you smiled at someone else, and I pretended it didn't hurt.
I never plan to send the letters. That's the rule I made for myself. They're not confessions. They're not promises. They're just… survival. A way to keep my heart from bursting during double mathematics or silent afternoons in class.
The bell rings, sharp and sudden, pulling me back into the noise of the classroom. Chairs scrape. Voices rise. Amara stands, slings her bag over her shoulder, and turns just enough that our eyes almost meet.
Almost.
I look away first. I always do.
As students rush past me, I stay seated a little longer. My fingers brush against my bag, against the notebook, as if checking that it's still there. Safe. Hidden. Untouched.
Because if anyone ever read those letters
If she ever read them
I don't know what would hurt more: her rejection, or the fact that my secret heart was never meant to be seen.
I zip my bag shut and stand up.
Tomorrow, I'll write another letter.
And like all the others, I'll never mean to send it.
At least… that's what I think.