I didn't notice when my thoughts slipped into the past, to the moment it first started.
The first time I saw her, it wasn't in real life.
It was on a screen.
A small WhatsApp display picture, glowing softly in the corner of my phone, held more power over me than I was ready to admit. She was smiling—nothing dramatic, nothing posed. Just a simple smile, the kind that feels like it belongs to someone who doesn't know how beautiful it really is.
I remember staring at it longer than I should have.
"She's beautiful," I whispered to myself, half amused, half embarrassed.
Then I laughed it off. Attraction happens. It fades. Life moves on.
At least, that's what I told myself.
We had started chatting casually. Nothing special. Just random texts, jokes, silly conversations that didn't mean anything—or so I believed. I typed like a fool, trying to be funny, trying to be interesting, hiding behind emojis and bad jokes. I never expected anything from her. In my mind, a girl like her had to be taken. Someone like me didn't even belong in the same story.
So I kept my distance.
At least emotionally.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice kept reminding me: Don't hope too much. You'll only hurt yourself.
And I listened.
For a while.
Days passed. Chats continued. She replied warmly, sometimes late, sometimes quickly, but always with a friendliness that made my phone feel lighter in my hand. Still, I didn't imagine more. She was just a name on my screen, a smile in a picture.
Somehow, she had turned into a good online friend, and with that came a feeling that didn't ask for attention—but stayed.
Present...
Until then, she had existed only in messages and late-night conversations. A familiar name on my phone, a smile frozen on a screen. Somewhere along the way, she had quietly become a good friend from the online world—and with that came a strange feeling I never tried to understand.
The first day of offline work began in an auditorium large enough to make everyone feel small.
Rows upon rows of new joinees filled the space, voices blending into a low, constant murmur. For two days straight, we sat there—listening to company briefings, policies, introductions, futures being outlined on a screen while our own quietly took shape in our minds. There was excitement in the air, the kind that comes with new beginnings and unfamiliar possibilities.
I walked into the auditorium, scanning faces out of habit, not really looking for anyone.
Then my eyes stopped.
There she was.
The same smile.
The same eyes.
Not on a screen this time—but sitting just a few rows away from me.
For a moment, I thought my mind was playing games with me.
No way. It can't be her.
But it was.
My heart skipped, then raced, then completely forgot how to beat normally. The girl from my phone was now right there—breathing the same air, laughing softly with her friends, completely unaware that she had just stepped out of my screen and into my life.
I didn't know whether to feel excited or scared.
Then she looked up.
Our eyes met.
Not as strangers.
But not as something else either.
She recognized me instantly.
A small wave followed—casual, easy, like the kind you give someone you know but don't quite know yet. I waved back, matching her tone, careful not to let my thoughts show on my face. It felt strange—acknowledging someone for the first time in real life while already knowing how they typed their laughter.
She was sitting with her friends—some guys, some girls. I didn't know any of them, and I didn't try to. At that moment, none of it registered properly.
I wasn't fully there.
I didn't want to be.
I kept my distance—physically and otherwise. I chose a seat away from her. I looked forward when the presenters spoke. I told myself this was just coincidence, just another face in a room full of hundreds.
Over those two days, I hardly looked at her—maybe three times at most.
We exchanged a few words, nothing beyond greetings.
No conversations. No lingering moments.
I made sure of it.
Not because I didn't want to talk to her.
But because I didn't want to feel more than I already did.
Distance had always been my way of protecting myself. And sitting there, in that auditorium, with her presence suddenly real and undeniable, I knew one thing clearly—
If I wasn't careful, this could grow into something I wasn't ready for.
So I stayed quiet.
I stayed reserved.
And I convinced myself that keeping space was the safest thing I could do.
For now.