He was once just a mutual friend of mine—nothing more than a familiar name in someone else's circle. He wasn't the person he is now, not yet. Back then, he carried himself with a kind of freedom I had never seen before. There was no fear in him, no heaviness in his heart. He spoke openly, laughed easily, and moved through the world as if it had never given him a reason to doubt himself. He was always active, always smiling—an effortless curve of joy that seemed permanent on his face. I remember silently wishing that life would never take that smile away from him.
The first time I truly noticed him, he stood there with a sling bag resting casually on one shoulder. My friend introduced us, and I simply said, "Hi," nothing more. It was such an ordinary moment, so small and forgettable to anyone else.
But not to me.
Because of his eyes.
There was something about them—something steady, something quietly intense—that stayed with me long after that brief introduction. Even now, I can't explain it properly. All I know is that from that day on, his eyes never really left my mind.
I suppose that's enough about him—for now.
Let me tell you about myself instead.
I have always been a quiet person, the kind who observes more than she speaks. Starting a conversation with someone new has never been easy for me, especially if that someone happens to be a boy. Words tend to hide when I need them most, leaving me with shy smiles and unfinished sentences.
I am an introvert in the truest sense—comfortable in my own company, cautious with my thoughts, and careful about who I let into my world. I don't open up easily. In fact, only a very few people have ever seen the real me beneath the silence.