Mornings in Azure Cove always began slowly.
The sea would hum before the sun touched it, and the wind carried a faint scent of salt and flowers from the hills. It was the kind of place where everything felt unhurried — where waves wrote stories on the sand and erased them before anyone could finish reading.
I used to think the town was too quiet for someone like me — someone who thought too much, who saw stories even in silence. But over time, I learned to love the calm. It reminded me that life didn't always need noise to be full.
The road to Azure Cove High was narrow, with puddles that never seemed to dry up no matter how long the sun stayed out. I walked it every morning, my bag hanging loosely behind me, my thoughts already miles ahead. Most days, I walked alone — not because I didn't have friends, but because I preferred the sound of my own thoughts to small talk.
"Onyedika! Make I hear say you no come class again today!"
The familiar voice of Chinonso, my best friend, cut through the air as I neared the school gate. His tone was playful but loud enough to turn heads.
I smiled faintly. "You no go change, Nonso."
He jogged to catch up with me, his uniform half-tucked, his grin wide enough to tell a full story.
"Na me be me," he said proudly. "You wey go soon turn professor, slow down small make breeze catch you."
I laughed under my breath. It felt good, that easy back-and-forth. Chinonso had a way of balancing my quiet with his noise — like the sea and the shore, always meeting but never clashing.
When we got to class, students were already gathering in groups. The sound of chatter and laughter filled the air — stories from home, gossips about crushes, and predictions about who would top the next test. They called me The Brain, but I didn't feel like it most times. I just loved learning — it was the one thing that always made sense to me.
Our class teacher, Mrs. Josephine, walked in soon after. The chatter faded like a radio turned down. She was the kind of teacher everyone respected — strict, but with a smile that softened her edges.
"Good morning, class."
"Good morning, ma."
The day unfolded like most others — lessons, laughter, the sound of chalk scratching against the board. But just before the last bell, the classroom door opened softly, and the air shifted.
A girl stepped in.
Everything seemed to slow.
She wasn't the kind of beauty that demanded attention; she was the kind that earned it — quietly, patiently. Her hair was braided neatly to the back, her skin the color of sunset after rain. She looked calm, but her eyes carried something — something distant, like she'd seen storms no one else had.
"This is Amara," Mrs. Josephine said. "She just transferred here. Everyone, make her feel welcome."
For a moment, the room buzzed with whispers. Then, silence.
She walked to an empty seat two rows from mine, set her bag down, and stared out the window — like the sea had followed her here.
Something about her quietness pulled at me. Not curiosity exactly, but recognition — like seeing a reflection in another's still water.
When the final bell rang, students rushed out, laughing and chatting. I stayed behind, pretending to arrange my notes while stealing one last glance at her. She didn't notice. Not yet.
Outside, Chinonso elbowed me. "You don see the new girl abi?"
I smiled faintly. "Which one?"
"The one wey sit near window. Omo, that babe fine no be small."
I chuckled. "You dey talk like say you wan marry am."
He laughed, slapping my shoulder. "Pụọ ngaa! Me wey still dey find who go like me."
But as we walked home, I couldn't stop thinking about her. The way her gaze lingered on nothing, the softness in her silence — it stayed with me, like the sound of waves long after they've gone.
---
That evening, the sky was painted gold, and the sea carried whispers only it understood. I sat by my window, my books spread out but forgotten. From there, I could see the shoreline — people walking, children chasing waves, fishermen pulling in their last catch.
I should have been reading, but my mind drifted back to the girl in the window seat. Amara.
Her eyes had that faraway look — the kind people wear when they've lost something they're still hoping to find.
My mother's voice echoed faintly from the kitchen, calling me to eat.
"Onyedika, food is ready o!"
"Okay, Mama," I called back, though I barely moved.
Dinner was simple — rice and stew, with the quiet hum of the radio in the background. My mother asked about school, about my tests, about the friends I kept. I answered softly, my thoughts elsewhere. She smiled knowingly. "Your mind dey far today," she said in Igbo, "hope no be girl matter?"
I almost choked on my food. "Mama!"
She laughed. "I no talk say e bad o. Just make sure you no forget book because of woman."
Her words lingered even after dinner.
Later that night, lying on my bed, I thought about the sea again. I'd always found comfort in its voice — steady, endless, forgiving. My father once told me that the sea remembers everything — even the things we try to forget. Maybe that's why it never stops moving.
A memory surfaced — me as a child, sitting by the shore after losing a math competition. I'd felt so small, so unseen. But the sea didn't care if I won or lost. It just kept moving, whispering, "try again." Maybe that's why I loved it. It was the only thing that understood quiet persistence.
---
The next morning at school, I caught sight of Amara again — standing by the classroom door, sunlight brushing her face. She looked calm, distant, beautiful.
As I walked in, I noticed someone else watching her too — Adaeze, a girl in my class who was always cheerful, always around but never loud. She smiled faintly when she saw me looking, then quickly turned away. It was subtle, but I caught it.
"Ogini kwa?" Chinonso asked, noticing where my eyes went.
"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just thinking."
"Hapụ m aka," he teased. "I dey see wetin you dey think."
The bell rang, and the day carried on, but I could feel something quietly shifting.
Amara's presence was like the sea — calm on the surface, deep underneath. And somewhere between her silence and my curiosity, something had begun to move.
That night, when the waves rose again outside my window, I whispered to myself — not knowing if it was hope or trouble:
"Loved by the sea, maybe… that's how it begins."
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