There are some words that feel heavier than others.
They sit on your tongue, waiting, daring you to be brave enough to let them fall. I carry those words with me every day into the classroom, down the hallways, even into my dreams. They all sound the same.
I like you.
I think about you.
You matter to me.
But every time I imagine saying them to Amara, my chest tightens and my courage disappears.
That morning, the classroom feels smaller than usual. The air is warm, thick with noise and restless energy. Amara is already in her seat when I arrive, her chin resting on her palm as she stares out the window. She looks peaceful, like she belongs somewhere far away from this place and definitely far away from me.
I sit down quietly, careful not to draw attention. My bag lands softly at my feet. The notebook presses against my leg, a reminder of everything I've written and everything I've refused to say.
The teacher talks. The board fills with notes. I pretend to listen.
But my eyes keep drifting forward.
She writes slowly today, pausing often, as if she's choosing her words carefully. I wonder if she struggles with the same things I do. If there are thoughts in her head that feel too fragile to share. The idea makes her feel closer. The idea makes my heart ache.
A folded piece of paper slides onto my desk.
I freeze.
For a second, my world narrows to that single square of paper. My heart pounds so loudly I'm sure the whole class can hear it. Slowly, I glance to my left. My friend gives me a bored look, clearly innocent.
I unfold the paper with shaking fingers.
Did you understand the last question?
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Of course. Of course it wasn't from her. I feel stupid for hoping it was. Stupid for feeling disappointed.
I nod and scribble a quick reply before passing it back.
When I look up again, Amara has turned slightly in her seat. Not enough to face me. Just enough that I can see the side of her face. Her eyes flicker in my direction for a brief moment, like she's searching for something.
Or someone.
My heart jumps, traitorous and foolish.
At lunch, I sit with my friends, laughing at jokes I barely hear. Across the room, Amara sits with hers, her head thrown back in laughter. It shouldn't hurt to see her happy. But it does. Because I'm not the reason for that smile.
I slip away early, claiming I forgot something. The quiet stairwell becomes my refuge. I sit on the steps and pull out my notebook, my fingers moving before my mind can stop them.
Dear Amara,
If I spoke every thought I had about you, I think my voice would shake too much to finish.
I pause, staring at the words. They feel honest. Too honest.
I close the notebook again, pressing it to my chest like it might calm the storm inside me.
Some people say love is loud. Obvious. Brave.
But mine feels like a whisper soft, constant, and terrified of being heard.
And for now, it will stay that way.