After that day, I started trying more.
Not confidently. Not successfully.
Just… more.
By some coincidence, I had become the class captain around that time. It wasn't something I had aimed for, and it didn't suddenly make me braver. If anything, it only made my stiffness more visible. I stood in front of people more often, spoke when needed, and returned to silence just as quickly.
One afternoon, sweeping duty came up. Three roll numbers were assigned, and Lyra was one of them. She came up to me and told me to remove the roll number of a student who was absent and write the next one instead, so three people could sweep.
I nodded.
But somewhere between that moment and the end of class, a thought formed quietly in my head. I decided I wouldn't change the name. I thought I would stay back instead. Help her sweep. Say nothing about it. Just do it.
When the bell rang and everyone started leaving, she looked at me. Not angry—just questioning. A look that asked why I hadn't done what she said.
I froze.
I couldn't explain myself. I couldn't even open my mouth. My body stiffened the way it always did when something mattered too much. So instead of speaking, I walked over, picked up the broom, and started sweeping.
She startled.
She told me it was fine. That she could do it herself. She told me not to sweep.
Before I could say a single word, she chased me out of the classroom.
I stood outside for a moment, confused and embarrassed, holding intentions I had never managed to explain. I told myself I'd wait until she was done, and then I'd say something—anything.
I waited near the bottom gate.
About twenty minutes passed.
When I finally went to check, the classroom was empty. She had already left, long ago, through the front gate.
I never brought it up later.
I never explained myself in texts.
I was too embarrassed to turn something that clumsy into words.
There were other moments too.
Sometimes I would visit my best friend who lived nearby, and I'd go into her kitchen to ask Lyra for notes. I didn't even write notes properly. I'd borrow them, return them after a few days—small excuses, really. Small chances to talk.
But conversations never lasted.
I'd stand there awkwardly, say a few sentences, smile when needed, and leave feeling like I had failed at something simple again. Every attempt felt like proof that I was better at existing in messages than in real life.
Because in texts, I was different.
Not fearless—but lighter.
Words came easily there. I joked without thinking, teased without fear, spoke without rehearsing sentences in my head first. I could pause before replying, erase mistakes, choose the right tone. Behind a screen, I didn't freeze.
We talked every day.
Long conversations that stretched without effort. Some days were playful—random jokes, meaningless arguments, shared laughter over things that wouldn't have mattered to anyone else. Other days were quieter. Comfortable. Time slipped by without either of us noticing.
We often joked about how I barely spoke to her in class. About how I didn't even look her way despite being so free in texts. She said it made her a little sad. I joked about finally talking to her someday, even though I failed every time the chance appeared.
Somewhere between those jokes and late replies, she started opening up more.
Not suddenly. Slowly. Naturally.
She talked about her life. About the pressure she felt. About family issues she never mentioned in class. About feeling misunderstood even when she was surrounded by people. She talked about her insecurities—about doubting herself, about feeling like she always had to be strong, even when she didn't want to be.
I listened.
I didn't interrupt. I didn't rush to fix things. I told her what I genuinely felt—that her struggles didn't make her weak, that she was allowed to feel tired, that responsibility didn't mean she had to carry everything alone.
And every time she opened up, I felt something steady settle inside me.
I liked being there for her.
I liked knowing my words could make things feel a little lighter for someone else.
That feeling was new to me. I wasn't used to being needed. I wasn't used to being trusted with the parts of someone's life that weren't shown to everyone.
In real life, I still struggled to meet her eyes.
In texts, I knew exactly what to say.
It felt strange, living as two versions of myself—one silent and awkward in front of her, the other expressive and present every night. I didn't question it then. I just accepted that this was how things worked.
And without realizing it, texting her stopped feeling like something I did.
It started feeling like something I needed.