People noticed him before they noticed me.
He was the kind of boy teachers trusted without question and classmates spoke about with admiration. Confident without being loud. Polite without trying. Wherever he went, conversations seemed to follow him naturally, like he belonged everywhere he stood.
I had seen him around campus before. Everyone had.
What I hadn't expected was the way he started noticing me.
At first, it was small. A greeting in the corridor. A question about notes I had borrowed once. Sitting beside me during lectures when there were plenty of empty seats elsewhere. I told myself it was nothing—just coincidence, just courtesy.
Attention was something I had learned not to expect. So when it came, I treated it carefully, like something that might disappear if I held it too tightly.
People, however, noticed faster than I did.
By the time he asked me to walk with him after class, eyes were already following us. Whispers moved quicker than our steps. I felt their curiosity settle on me like a weight.
He didn't rush. That was the part people didn't see.
"I like you," he said one evening as we stood near the campus gate, the noise of the street fading behind us. His voice was steady. Certain. "I've wanted to tell you for a while."
There was no drama in the way he said it. No pressure. No performance. Just confidence.
I waited.
I waited for something inside me to react—to spark, to rise, to say yes before my mouth did.
Nothing happened.
Instead, I felt something else. Relief. The kind that comes when a decision is placed in front of you so clearly that refusing it feels unnecessary.
I thought of my aunt's sharp glances.My uncle's quiet warnings.The way people talked when they thought I wasn't listening.
Being seen with someone like him meant fewer questions.Fewer looks.Fewer reasons for people to doubt me.
So I smiled.
And I said yes.
The change was immediate.
People smiled at me more. Conversations softened when I walked past. Even my aunt said nothing that night—only nodded once when she heard. Approval, wrapped neatly in silence.
He held my hand the first time we walked together in public. His grip was warm. Steady. Reassuring.
This is what it's supposed to feel like, I told myself.
But something inside me stayed quiet.
I tried to match my steps to his, my laughter to his jokes. He was kind. Thoughtful. He remembered small details about my day, asked questions, listened when I spoke.
He deserved more than my hesitation.
Still, there were moments—small, unexpected ones—when I felt oddly distant. When his presence didn't ease the restlessness I carried. When I caught myself waiting for something I couldn't name.
Late at night, when the house fell silent and my thoughts wandered freely, a familiar calm returned. The same one I had felt on the veranda. The same one from the library.
It didn't belong to him.
I pushed the thought away.
Wanting something invisible felt dangerous.
One evening, as I prepared to leave for class, my aunt watched me closely.
"You're lucky," she said finally. "Not everyone gets such opportunities."
I nodded, because nodding was easier than explaining that luck and choice didn't always feel the same.
Later that night, I cycled through the dimly lit streets alone. The air felt heavier than usual, thick with thoughts I couldn't quiet. The road stretched ahead, familiar and empty, streetlights flickering as I pedaled faster, trying to outrun everything crowding my mind.
I wondered if choosing something that looked right would eventually make it feel right.
If loving someone visible would finally silence the part of me that kept reaching for what I couldn't see.
The night didn't answer.
The road dipped suddenly.
The front wheel slipped.
For a brief moment, everything felt weightless—and then the ground rushed up to meet me.
Pain flared sharply, knocking the air from my lungs as metal scraped against the pavement. My vision blurred, the edges of the world softening as if I were sinking underwater.
I tried to move.I couldn't.
Somewhere between awareness and darkness, I felt hands on me—strong, steady—pulling me away from the road. The same unfamiliar warmth I had felt before wrapped around me, calming and immediate, the way it always did when I was alone.
I was half-conscious when I sensed someone close.
Too close.
Through the blur, a face appeared—gentle, unreal—hovering over me. Arms around me, holding me upright, as if trying to wake me, to keep me here.
I felt his breath before I felt anything else.
And then… nothing.