After all of this, our conversations grew easier. We were no longer just classmates who shared occasional jokes during lectures. We were now comfortable enough to talk during breaks, to sit near each other without awkwardness, and to carry small conversations that didn't feel forced.
One afternoon, during a break, a random discussion shifted to relationships. I don't remember how it started or who brought it up, but suddenly she looked at me and asked:
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
The question hit me harder than it should have.
I took a breath and told her about my past—about the girl I once loved, about how things ended when she chose someone else over me. I tried to sound normal, unaffected, but old wounds have a way of opening silently. Though, this time, the pain didn't hit as strongly as it once did.
When I finished, I asked her back, trying to keep my voice steady:
"What about you?"
She shook her head.
"No. I'm not in any relationship."
That moment planted a dangerous thought in my heart.
Maybe… just maybe…
I didn't say it aloud. But it lingered.
I even asked her multiple times, just to be sure:
"Tell the truth… you really don't have a boyfriend?"
She insisted she didn't.
Later, she opened up about a boy from her childhood—a neighbor she used to play with, how they grew close, how it eventually became something innocent and short-lived. I found it funny and oddly sweet. It felt refreshing to hear a story that wasn't dramatic or tragic, just human.
After that day, something changed in me.
I started noticing her more. Waiting for her messages. Looking for her during breaks.
I kept telling myself it was just friendliness. But deep down, I knew—I was already stepping into a place I might not be able to walk out of easily.
The more time we spent together, the more familiar she became. Her expressions. Her teasing. The way she roasted me, made fun of my jokes, and still laughed at them afterward.
And I loved it.
I didn't fall for her all at once. It happened slowly. Quietly.
Like a song you don't realize is playing until it's already stuck in your head.
Some days, an insecure voice whispered:
She's too good for you.
She felt like a princess from a world I didn't belong to. I couldn't give her the life she deserved. I wasn't tall enough. Handsome enough. Successful enough. I was just… me.
And yet, I loved the feeling of loving her. Even if it went nowhere. Even if it stayed unspoken.
Soon, our training arc came to an end. We were now going to be assigned to our respective teams across different buildings. No one knew where they would end up. It felt like the end of a small chapter none of us realized we were living.
To my luck—or fate—we landed in the same building.
And from there, a new arc of life began. The training days were over. We were no longer sitting side-by-side through lectures, cracking jokes in between slides, or spending entire afternoons together without effort. Now we were in our respective teams, in different corners of the office, doing actual work. Hours passed without seeing her. Meetings came and went. Responsibilities replaced the comfort of training.
Maybe that was why even the smallest moments with her began to matter.
Every morning, I came early. Too early. I stood outside, pretending to scroll through my phone, waiting to catch a glimpse of her without her noticing.
For that smile.
And when she saw me and smiled, everything else in the world felt lighter.
Our days found their own rhythm. Routine mixed with chances. Coincidences that didn't feel like coincidences anymore.
I skipped meetings. Delayed work. Made excuses. All just to spend a few more minutes with her—talking, joking, playing like kids who had forgotten that they were supposed to be adults.
What I didn't know then was that I was already building my world around her.
A world where her smile was my peace. Her laughter was my reward. And her presence was slowly becoming my addiction.
I thought I was in control. I was wrong.
Because that was only the beginning. And beginnings are always beautiful—especially when you don't yet know how much they are going to hurt.