The classroom feels heavier today, though I can't explain why. Maybe it's the way the sunlight streams in just right, hitting Amara's hair and making it look like it's glowing. Maybe it's the quiet way everyone else's chatter fades into the background whenever she's near. Whatever it is, it's enough to make me acutely aware of my own heartbeat.
I pull my notebook from my bag, my safe place, and flip to a fresh page. The paper feels smooth beneath my fingers, but my thoughts are jagged, spilling over the edges like ink about to run. I pick up my pen, and suddenly, nothing makes sense.
I want to write her name. Just that. Not even a sentence. But even that feels too bold, too real. My hand hovers over the paper, shaking slightly.
Dear Amara,
I…
I stop. The words feel too fragile, like breaking glass. I close my eyes for a second, trying to calm the storm inside me. I know I can't send this letter. I've never sent one, and I probably never will. These letters are my safety net. My way of keeping my feelings alive without risking them being crushed.
But I fold the paper once, then twice, carefully, like I'm protecting the words within. My fingers press against the crease as if the act of folding makes the words safe.
I glance at her, seated two rows ahead, scribbling something in her notebook. She doesn't notice me. She never does. I tell myself it doesn't matter that she's just busy, just living her life. But every second I spend watching her feels like time I'll never get back.
The bell rings, and my heart jolts. It's the start of class, and suddenly the room feels smaller, more intense. Everyone is finding their seats, chatting quietly. I focus on my notebook, hoping my trembling hands won't betray me.
I write again, smaller this time, almost as if I'm whispering to the page.
Dear Amara,
Sometimes I wonder if you'd ever notice me if I said these words out loud. But the truth is, I'm afraid. Afraid you'd look at me like I'm nothing more than a classmate, a shadow two rows behind you.
I fold the paper again, over the first two folds, making it smaller, concealing it, hiding it in plain sight. My chest is tight, my mind a whirl of "what ifs" and "maybe somedays."
Then, as if the universe wanted to remind me of reality, the teacher calls on me. "Daniel, can you solve the problem on the board?"
I freeze. My hands are sweaty, my stomach twisting. Everyone's eyes are on me, but all I can think about is her. Her soft, attentive gaze as she leans over her desk, concentrating. I panic for a second, then force myself to rise and walk to the board.
I solve the problem mechanically, each number feeling like a step away from my heart. By the time I sit down, I'm shaking slightly, but no one notices. Except… maybe her. She tilts her head, watching me for a fleeting moment, and then returns to her work. That moment alone makes my chest ache with longing.
Class drags on. Every time I look at her, I want to whisper something, anything, but the words die before they leave my lips. My mind keeps returning to the letter folded in my notebook, the one I'm too scared to let see the light of day.
During a quiet moment, she shifts her bag slightly, and a pen rolls onto the floor. I grab it quickly, my hand brushing against hers. The contact is brief barely noticeable but my heart refuses to settle.
"Here," I murmur, holding out the pen.
She takes it with a soft, "Thanks," and smiles faintly. The kind of smile that makes the world feel lighter, but also heavier, because I can't reach it fully. I nod, muttering, "No problem," though my voice feels weak even to my own ears.
The bell for lunch approaches, and the room begins to stir. I gather my things slowly, reluctant to leave this fragile little bubble of proximity we've shared. I glance at her, hoping to catch her eye. For a moment, it feels like she might notice me, like she's aware of the way I watch her, the way I care more than I should.
But then she packs her bag, adjusts her uniform, and starts walking toward the door. My chest tightens. I want to run after her, to say something, anything, but my feet feel like they're made of lead.
Instead, I stay seated and pull out my notebook. My pen moves automatically, pouring out words I can't say aloud.
Dear Amara,
Today, you didn't see the letter I wrote. You didn't see me fold it twice, fold it again, like I was trying to trap my feelings inside. But even if you never read these words, even if you never notice them, they exist. And for me, that's enough for now.
I fold the new letter carefully, over the previous folds. My fingers linger on it, pressed against the paper as if I can absorb some courage from the act.
And then, just before I close my notebook, I notice her glancing back at me from the doorway. Our eyes meet for the briefest second. My heart lurches. She smiles again, almost shyly, and then turns to leave.
The weight of longing hits me all at once. I can't follow her. Not yet. I don't have the courage. So I sit there, notebook clutched to my chest, breathing in her absence like it's air I can't live without.
I know this is just another day, another letter folded twice, another secret kept. But I also know this: every folded letter, every stolen glance, every moment she unknowingly touches my life it's building something. Something fragile, something terrifying, something beautiful.
And maybe someday, when I have the courage, I'll unfold the letters. I'll let her read the words I've hidden. And maybe… just maybe… she'll look at me the way I've been looking at her all along.
For now, though, it's enough to fold the paper again. Twice. Three times. Carefully, protectively.
And wait.