The afternoon sunlight drifts lazily through the classroom window, painting golden lines across the desks. I'm sitting in my usual spot, two rows behind Amara, pretending to review my notes, though my mind isn't on chemistry at all. Every now and then, I glance up, and there she is her hair catching the light, fingers tracing lines in her notebook, eyes soft and distant.
It's strange how someone can occupy your thoughts so completely without ever knowing. She doesn't know I watch her. She doesn't know that I memorize the way her pen twirls between her fingers, the small crease she makes on her notebook when she's thinking, or the little sigh she lets out when the words won't come.
I pull my notebook from my bag, careful not to make a sound, and flip to a blank page. My pen hovers over it as if it knows the weight of what I'm about to write. I've written so many letters that I never meant to send, but today feels different. Today, I need to write her. Not just about her, not just to her, but for her to exist on paper in a way I can touch.
Dear Amara,
I wrote your name today before I wrote anything else. I wrote it in the corner of my page, small, messy, because even that small part of you feels too big for me.
I pause, staring at the words, my chest tight. I can't send this. Not yet. Not ever… maybe. But writing it makes my heart lighter, as if by admitting it to paper, I've claimed a tiny piece of her for myself.
The teacher calls on me, snapping me out of my reverie. I mumble an answer to a question I barely understood, cheeks burning. My hand presses against the notebook beneath the desk, keeping my secret safe.
Class drags on, and every moment feels elongated, like time is stretching just to let me watch her a little longer. When she writes, I can't help but watch the way her pen glides across the page, each letter precise, deliberate. I think about my letters, all the words I've hidden from her, and I wonder if she's ever noticed someone like me someone too afraid to speak.
At the end of class, the bell rings, and the room fills with noise. Students shuffle their papers, pack their bags, and laugh with friends. I stay seated a little longer, pretending to check my notes.
Then I see her.
Amara drops her pen, just barely, and it rolls across the floor. Without thinking, I reach down and grab it, holding it out to her.
"Here," I say, my voice quiet, almost too soft for her to hear.
She looks at me, eyes wide, and then her lips curve into that soft, uncertain smile that has haunted my dreams. "Thanks," she says, taking the pen from my hand. Our fingers brush for a fraction of a second, and my heart stumbles.
I want to say something anything but the words dissolve before they reach my mouth. So I just nod and watch her gather her things.
Walking out, she glances back over her shoulder. For a moment, it feels like she's looking right at me. I catch myself holding my breath, praying that somehow, in that briefest of moments, she sees the letters I've written in my notebook. My name scrawled in her margins. My heart inked across the pages I'll never show her.
At lunch, I sit with my friends, but their voices are muffled. My thoughts are elsewhere, drifting back to the way she smiled at me, the brush of her fingers against mine. I wish I could replay that moment a hundred times. I wish I could tell her how it made me feel without sounding foolish.
Instead, I pull out my notebook when no one is looking. I write again, letting the words spill freely, messy and desperate.
Dear Amara,
Your smile is small, but it feels enormous. When you look at me even for a second I feel like I might finally exist in a way that matters.
I pause, biting my lip. The hallways are noisy now, but in my mind, it's quiet. It's just her and me, just these words and this feeling I can't place anywhere else. I write another line:
*I wish I could tell you, but I'm too afraid. So I'll write it instead, hoping one day these words might reach you in a way I never could.*
I close the notebook, pressing it against my chest. My heart is pounding, but it's a good kind of ache the kind that feels alive, the kind that reminds you that you're still capable of hope.
The afternoon passes in a blur. Classes, questions, laughter I can't fully participate in. But through it all, I keep glancing at her, at her hair falling in soft waves over her notebook, at the small crease of concentration between her eyebrows, at the gentle tilt of her head as she thinks. Every little detail feels monumental.
When the final bell rings, signaling the end of the school day, the hallway is a river of moving bodies. I try to follow her discreetly as she heads toward the staircase. I don't know why I do it. Maybe it's selfish, maybe it's foolish. But I need to see her one more time today. One more time before reality drags us apart.
She pauses halfway down the stairs, pulling her phone from her bag. She types something, then hesitates. For a moment, I think she's going to leave, to disappear before I get a chance to do anything.
But then she looks up. And her gaze meets mine.
My chest tightens. My stomach flutters. Time slows. Everything else the chatter, the clatter of footsteps, the blur of students rushing past disappears. For that instant, it's just her and me, connected in a way that words on paper could never capture.
I open my mouth to speak, to say *hi*, to say something meaningful, but nothing comes out. She tilts her head slightly, smiles faintly, and that's enough. Enough to make my day. Enough to make my heart ache. Enough to remind me that these small, silent connections matter more than anything I can write.
As she walks away, I clutch my notebook tightly and follow at a safe distance, careful not to intrude. I don't know what I'll do with these feelings. I don't know when or if I'll ever tell her. But I know one thing:
Her name, written in my handwriting, carries all the weight of my heart. And for now, that's enough.