After that short conversation, nothing magical happened.
No sudden closeness.
No deep conversations.
No "hey, come sit with us" moment.
But something important had changed.
She knew my name.
And for me, that mattered more than I was willing to admit.
The days that followed felt strangely normal and stressful at the same time. School went on the way school always does — morning noise, boring lessons, teachers talking like life depended on it, students pretending to listen while secretly counting minutes to break. Everything stayed the same, yet something in my head refused to calm down.
I noticed Precious more than before.
Not in a creepy way — just in that quiet way where someone's presence starts to matter. Sometimes she'd walk past my seat. Sometimes she'd laugh with her friends. Sometimes she'd be focused on her books, serious, like nothing else existed.
And every time I thought, I should talk to her.
And every time, I didn't.
At first, I made excuses.
She's busy.
She's with her friends.
Maybe later.
Not today.
But deep down, I knew the truth.
I was shy.
Painfully shy.
Emma noticed it before I even said anything. One afternoon during break, he leaned back in his chair and looked at me the way someone looks when they already know the answer.
"So," he said, "have you talked to her again?"
The question hit me harder than it should have.
I pretended to think about it.
"No," I said finally.
Emma laughed quietly.
"I figured."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.
"It means you're still stuck," he said. "You're overthinking."
I sighed.
"You don't understand."
Emma shook his head.
"I understand perfectly. You like her. You're scared of messing it up."
That annoyed me because it was true.
"She already knows your name," he continued. "That's something. Most people don't even get that far."
I nodded slowly.
"Yes."
"So what's next?"
I hesitated.
The answer sat heavy in my chest.
Her number.
Just thinking about it made my stomach twist. It wasn't the number itself — it was what it represented. Asking for her number meant stepping forward. It meant risking rejection. It meant exposing myself.
Emma saw the hesitation.
"We should get her number," he said casually.
I looked at him immediately.
"No."
He smiled.
"No?"
"No," I repeated. "Not we."
He raised his eyebrow.
"Then who?"
"Me," I said. "I'll do it myself."
The words surprised even me.
Emma studied my face for a few seconds.
"You sure about that?"
I wasn't.
But I nodded anyway.
"I have to," I said. "If I want her to even see me properly… I can't keep hiding."
Emma leaned back and smiled.
"Alright. I'll just watch from behind."
That didn't comfort me at all.
When break came, my heart started acting strange — not fast, not dramatic, just heavy. I spotted Precious standing a little away from her friends, scrolling on her phone. My brain started panicking immediately.
Now or never, I told myself.
I stood up.
Every step toward her felt longer than it should have. My palms felt slightly sweaty. I became painfully aware of my breathing. I wondered if she could see how nervous I was. I wondered if my voice would shake. I wondered why I was doing this to myself.
I stopped in front of her.
She looked up.
Our eyes met.
And just like that…
Everything I had prepared disappeared.
Every joke.
Every smooth line.
Every confident sentence.
Gone.
I stared at her.
She stared back, confused but calm.
My mouth opened.
"I… I did… I did hold your number."
The moment the words left my mouth, I knew.
That was wrong.
That was very wrong.
She blinked.
"My number?" she asked.
"What?" she added, clearly trying to understand what I meant.
Inside my head, everything collapsed.
Why would you say that?
What does that even mean?
Who talks like this?
I wanted the ground to open up. I had done many disappointing things in my life — failing exams, letting myself down, embarrassing myself in small ways — but this moment felt special.
Specially humiliating.
I stood there, frozen, wishing I could rewind time.
That was when Emma stepped in.
Emma's POV
I followed Elvis because I already knew how this would go.
I've seen that look before — the stiff posture, the blank face, the confidence leaving the body slowly but surely. When he stopped in front of her, I prepared myself.
And then I heard it.
"I did hold your number."
I almost laughed.
Almost.
But I knew this wasn't funny for him. So I stepped forward immediately.
"Hey," I said with a smile. "He meant to ask if he could have your number."
She looked at me, then at Elvis.
Then she smiled.
"Oh," she said. "Okay."
She said it like it was nothing. Like it wasn't the biggest moment of his life.
She gave the number without hesitation.
When she walked away, I turned to Elvis.
"Bro," I said, shaking my head, "you really need to step up your game."
Then I left him there to think.
Elvis' POV
When Emma handed me the number and walked away, I stared at it like it was something fragile.
A phone number.
Just digits.
Yet my hands felt heavy holding it.
I felt embarrassed. Relieved. Grateful. Ashamed. Happy. All at once.
I knew something that day.
I had a problem.
And it wasn't her.
It was me.