The classroom feels… different today.
Not quieter. Not louder. Just… charged. Every time the teacher calls a question, every scribble of a pen, every shuffle of a chair, it feels like the room hums with energy I can't explain. My heart keeps flipping over itself, fast and irregular, and I'm almost certain everyone else is oblivious.
But I'm not. I notice everything.
Amara sits at her usual seat, sunlight catching her hair, brushing her cheek, glinting in her pen. She's focused, biting the end of it lightly, her brow furrowed just a little as she writes. And somehow, even though the classroom is full of noise, it feels like she's the only person in the room.
I glance down at my own notebook, trying to take notes, but my pen moves too slowly. My thoughts keep drifting back to her, tracing the curve of her handwriting in my mind, wondering if she notices the small things about me like I notice every tiny detail about her.
The bell rings, signaling the start of the first period, and the chatter dies down. The teacher begins the lesson, writing equations across the board. I scribble along mechanically, my mind wandering with every glance I steal in her direction.
And then… it happens.
She looks up.
Just for a moment. Just a flicker. But it's enough.
I freeze mid-note, my pen hovering in the air like it's afraid to move. Our eyes meet, and for the first time, I feel like she sees me not just the back row, not just a shadow two seats behind, but me. Daniel.
Her gaze lingers for a heartbeat longer than it should, just long enough to make my chest feel heavy, to make my hands clammy. And then she looks away, pretending to study the board, but my stomach twists anyway.
I can't breathe properly. Not because of her, not entirely. Because for a second, something inside me wants to believe she knows. Knows about the letters, about the folded pages, about every thought I've been too afraid to speak.
The class goes on, and I pretend to listen. Pretend to take notes. But my eyes keep finding her, always finding her. She bites her lip lightly when she thinks, and my pen scratches the paper too hard because my nerves are raw.
Then, without warning, the boy sitting across the room drops his textbook. The loud thud echoes through the quiet room, snapping me from my daze. Everyone glances up. Amara glances up. And then, she smiles.
Not at me. Not yet. Just a soft, amused smile at the situation.
But it's enough to make my heart ache. Enough to make me feel small, invisible, and simultaneously completely consumed by her.
The teacher calls on someone to answer a question, and I realize I've been staring for too long. My cheeks heat up, and I scribble something down on my notebook, trying to convince myself I'm paying attention. But it's futile. I'm not here. My thoughts are with her, every glance, every smile, every quiet movement.
By mid-class, I notice she's been looking in my direction more than once. Not blatantly. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But I notice.
My chest pounds. My thoughts race. Why would she look at me? Does she know? Does she suspect anything? Or is it… nothing? A coincidence?
I try to tell myself it's nothing. I try to focus. But the moment she shifts slightly, reaching for her pencil case, and her sleeve brushes against my arm… I nearly jump out of my seat.
She doesn't even notice. Or maybe she does. I can't tell. But my heart skips a beat, and I can feel the heat rising to my face.
I try to hide it behind my notebook. Pretend it's nothing. Pretend I'm just tired. Pretend that a fleeting touch can't feel like the world falling apart and rebuilding all at once.
The teacher gives us a group activity, and my heart drops. She's paired with someone else today. My stomach twists. I try to stay calm, telling myself it's fine. She's just working with a classmate. There's nothing here. But my mind refuses to listen.
I watch her laugh quietly with her partner, her smile gentle and bright, and it stabs at me with a strange mix of longing and jealousy. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to fidget. Trying not to let my emotions spill out.
During the activity, I can't focus. Every few seconds, I glance at her, hoping she'll look back. Hoping she'll acknowledge me without even knowing it. My chest aches with words I can't speak. Words I've written in letters folded twice, words I've hidden in my notebook like treasures no one else can touch.
The bell rings, and the activity ends. She gathers her things slowly, glancing up once, and our eyes meet again. Just for a second. But in that second, my world narrows. I see something there a flicker of awareness, maybe curiosity, maybe recognition. I don't know.
And then she's gone, swept away by the movement of the classroom. I stay behind, clinging to the notebook in my bag, my fingers trembling slightly. I write quickly, words pouring out without thought.
Dear Amara,
I don't know why you looked at me today, or if you even noticed me at all. But for the briefest moment, I felt seen. And that is worth more than I can say. I know it's ridiculous. I know I'm probably imagining things. But my heart… it feels like it's finally awake.
I fold the paper carefully, placing it on top of the letters I've already folded twice. My chest tightens, but in a different way now a mixture of hope and fear.
Hope that someday she'll notice more. Fear that I might be waiting in vain.
When I finally leave the classroom, the hallway feels overwhelming, crowded with students moving in every direction. I catch glimpses of her ahead, laughing softly with a friend. My heart aches, and I almost call out her name. Almost step forward.
But I don't.
Instead, I follow quietly, a little behind, keeping her in view without drawing attention to myself. I clutch my notebook tightly, imagining a world where these words I write might one day be enough.
Maybe someday, she'll look back and see me not just a classmate in the back row but someone who notices her, truly notices her, in every tiny detail.
And until that day comes, I'll keep writing. I'll keep folding my letters twice. I'll keep watching.
Because even silence in Class 3B feels like a conversation between her and me.