Crushes are strange.They don't arrive loudly, and they don't ask for permission. They appear quietly, settle somewhere in your chest, and leave you wondering whether they mean something—or nothing at all.
At my age, I didn't understand the difference between attention and affection. I didn't know whether liking someone meant wanting them, or simply wanting to be noticed. Sometimes, it wasn't even about the person—it was about how they made me feel seen, even for a moment.
My crushes were never dramatic.They were silent.They lived in stolen glances, half-smiles, and thoughts I never spoke.
Truly, in this world, I have had countless crushes—actors whose eyes linger on the screen, classmates who pass by with casual grace, characters from stories and anime who feel alive in my imagination. But only two of these infatuations ever truly touched my heart.
The first was in 7th grade, a boy named Hardik, one year older than me, whose presence somehow made the air lighter. I wouldn't have met him if I hadn't joined the music club. My ex-best friend also harbored a secret fondness for him. To be honest, he was undeniably attractive, but it wasn't just his looks that drew me. It was his kindness, his genuine respect for everyone, especially girls, and the innocence that lingered in his smile.
I was new to the school, though older in age. I had returned after two years, and most students had never seen me before. During exams, 8th graders sit alongside 7th graders. Hardik's roll number was the same as my best friend's, which meant he had to sit beside her. That's when I first saw him. He looked perfect in a way that felt effortless, yet at that moment, neither I nor my friend paid much attention—he was just another boy occupying a seat.
Our first real interaction began with the music club. Samiksha and I chose it because she couldn't participate in sports due to her asthma, and I wanted to stay by her side. The club became a magical space—a realm of laughter, music, and discovery. Hardik was in another group, and it was in those rehearsals, amid shared songs and jokes, that I began to notice the layers of his personality. The music teacher, the seniors, the laughter echoing in the halls—all of it formed a cocoon of joy. I felt alive in those moments.
When the seniors had their board exams, their absence shifted dynamics. Hardik had a girl in his group, older than us, who also had feelings for him. A pang of jealousy flitted through me, brief and bitter, but I was happy too. Life has a strange way of mixing joy and longing, and I was beginning to feel both intensely.
Then came the performance positions. Our teacher and a senior suggested mixing our placement so that everyone would sing every song. I, tall and commanding, was placed at the back among the boys. Nitanshu, a classmate whose awkwardness unnerved me, was positioned next to me. His presence made me uncomfortable, instinctively stepping away from him. Hardik, ever perceptive, noticed the shift and subtly moved me to stand next to him instead. My heart fluttered. Every small gesture he made, every act of understanding, deepened my crush.
We later formed a WhatsApp group for our music club. I held his number in my hand and stared at it with disbelief and delight. One day, my best friend confessed that she liked Hardik. My mind reeled—because I did too. Yet there was no jealousy between us; we shared our thoughts openly, discussing him endlessly, exploring every tiny detail of his personality.
As the performance day drew near, our teacher changed the theme to a school song, selecting a few students for studio recording—including me and Hardik. My best friend wasn't chosen, which sparked a flicker of jealousy, but I was ecstatic. On the bus to the studio, we sat close. Our hands brushed, and a shiver of delight ran through me. That simple touch, fleeting yet electric, made me feel like I might never want to wash my hands again.
In the studio, I sang as the main vocalist, but nerves made my voice tremble. Hardik and I shared tracks, our voices harmonizing beautifully. That day, joy was tangible. On the performance day itself, wearing our school uniforms, singing in unison, I remained close to him, my happiness overflowing.
The last day of 7th grade arrived, and Hardik left the school for further studies. I watched him from a distance, my heart full of a love I had never felt before. In a fleeting moment, we accidentally bumped into each other. My lips brushed his chin lightly, and he blushed, smiling shyly. "I'm sorry," I murmured. "I'm sorry," he replied, and in that brief exchange, my heart felt infinite. Perhaps he felt something too, perhaps not—the uncertainty of teenage emotions is a delicate, haunting thing.
I kept his number, checking his DP every day, longing quietly. Over time, I realized the intensity was attraction, beautiful yet transient, and I let go. Life moved forward, as it must.
Then came my second love—BMW. It's a love unlike any other. A person may abandon you, hearts may waver, but BMW remains. It occupies a sacred space in my priorities, ranking fifth, yet more certain than romantic love. Parents' love is natural and true; other love is fleeting, fragile, often unpredictable.
In 8th grade, a new chapter of attention began, this time involving Prashant and Sahil. Prashant entered our section because of a reshuffle, along with Sahil, Rohan, Mayank, and Yash. Initially, I paid little attention, enjoying time with my best friend and the chaotic vibrancy of the class.
Prashant and I clashed immediately. He laughed when I didn't answer a question(this was what thought and imagined) but it was not the truth he never laughed at me he was laughing at something else oops ..but still. I confronted him, threatening to expose his disrespect. He, possessed of a short temper yet fearful of authority—his father..—stood tense. Our enmity became the foundation of something more. Sahil observed silently, quietly captivated.
Prashant, despite our early clashes, began to admire me. I noticed subtle moments—eye contact across the classroom, brief glances that lingered, the small tremble in his gaze when I addressed him. I understood then how intoxicating a shared look could be. I met his eyes deliberately, aware of the thrill that surged through me prashant is very maure ..he likes me but cant confess..well i am not sure about if they like me or not .but if i think and my ex bff thinks it may be true .sahil is quite cheerfull and i think he likes me or not he is good in looks . i have a little crush on him Sahil's gaze lingered too, and I reciprocated subtly. Those fleeting connections became a dance of silent understanding, a secret rhythm between us.
Though Prashant and Sahil never confessed aloud, I sensed their feelings. I never wanted to disrupt the friendship between two boys, and I respected that unspoken bond. I cherished the stolen glances, the unspoken admiration, the thrilling weight of knowing they noticed me. Crushes, fights, teasing, and shared eye contact taught me more about human connection than words ever could.
Through it all, I learned the value of subtlety, the joy in small gestures, and the quiet power of attention. To feel seen by someone who admires you, even without words, is one of the most exquisite sensations in the world.
even ,if you have to choose between the one you admire or the one who admires you ..choose the one who admires ..you and only you ..