As the weeks passed, the rhythm of our meetings settled into something familiar, something I looked forward to. The classroom, once just a place to pass time, began to feel different—warmer, even. It wasn’t the lessons that made it feel that way, nor the hum of the ceiling fan or the ticking of the clock. No, it was you.
We talked more now, not just out of necessity, but because we wanted to. I found myself eagerly waiting for those small moments after class, when the rest of the students scattered, and it was just the two of us, standing by the door or sitting at our desks, catching up on the day’s events. The conversations began to flow more naturally, moving from the mundane to the meaningful, and for the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of ease I hadn’t known I’d been missing.
You would tell me about the little things—how your day had been, the small victories of your week, your quiet thoughts on the assignments, and even your dreams for the future, soft whispers of things you might never have said to anyone else. And somehow, those moments felt like a gift. I never rushed them. I never felt the need to. I was content to simply listen to your voice, soft and steady, as if it were a lullaby meant just for me. Your presence became the backdrop of my days, a calm that I never knew I needed until it was there.
And the way you laughed… It wasn’t just the sound, but the way it made everything feel lighter, like the weight of the world could be carried away by that single, delicate sound. It was as though, in that moment, nothing else mattered. You made the simplest moments feel extraordinary, and I couldn’t help but be drawn to it. I would find myself thinking about those laughs long after they had faded, replaying them in my mind like a favorite song that wouldn’t stop playing in the background.
I started to realize that, without thinking, I was waiting for our conversations. It wasn’t just about the homework anymore, or the little chats about what was happening around us. It was about the connection—this quiet, growing bond that was forming between us without either of us saying a word about it. It was subtle, like the shift in seasons from spring to summer—almost imperceptible, yet everything around us began to feel different.
One day, as we stood by the door, waiting for the bell to ring, you asked me a question, something simple about the homework, but the way you asked it made my heart flutter in a way I couldn’t explain. You were so casual about it, yet the warmth in your voice sent a ripple through me. I think I stuttered when I replied, my words coming out in a rush, completely unintentional, but I couldn’t stop it. I was so caught off guard by the way you made me feel. It wasn’t just the question—it was the way you were looking at me, with that quiet, patient gaze, as if you were seeing me in a way no one else had.
There was something unspoken between us, a silent understanding, a pull I couldn’t explain. It was in the way our hands brushed when we reached for the same pen, the way your eyes seemed to linger just a little longer than usual, and the way my heart raced without reason. Was this what it meant? Was this how it felt when you were drawn to someone, even when you couldn’t put it into words?
And then, as the bell rang, signaling the end of class, you smiled at me—one of those smiles that made the world feel just a little brighter, as though everything was okay, no matter how difficult things might be. The corners of your eyes crinkled, and for a moment, I thought I saw something deeper in your expression—something that mirrored the feeling I couldn’t quite put into words. But before I could say anything, you turned to leave, and just like that, you were gone.
But even in that moment, with the sound of your footsteps fading into the hallway, something lingered in the air, something that I couldn’t shake. It wasn’t just the memory of your smile. It was the feeling—the warmth in my chest, the gentle pull toward you. The thought that maybe, just maybe, you felt the same way too.
