The morning bell always rings too loudly for my liking.
It slices through conversations, through laughter, through the fragile calm that exists before the day officially begins. When it rings, everyone rushes to become a student again backs straight, voices quiet, hearts hidden. I feel it every time, like a reminder that whatever I'm feeling has no place here.
I'm already seated when the bell rings today. Early for once. I don't know why I came in so soon maybe I wanted the classroom to myself, or maybe I wanted a few extra minutes of pretending my thoughts weren't completely tangled around one person.
Amara isn't here yet.
The room feels strangely empty without her, even though most of the seats are already filled. I tell myself that's ridiculous. She's just another student. Another face. Another name on the attendance list.
But when she walks in a minute later, the classroom feels like it exhales.
She pauses just inside the doorway, scanning the room as if she's looking for someone. My heart stutters stupidly before I remember myself. She wouldn't be looking for me. There's no reason she would.
She finds her seat by the window and settles in, pulling her chair back slightly so the sunlight spills across her desk. She looks tired today. Not unhappy just quiet, like she didn't sleep enough or thought too much the night before. I wonder what keeps her awake at night. I wonder if anyone ever wonders the same about me.
The teacher hasn't arrived yet, and the classroom buzzes with low conversation. I watch Amara pull out her notebook and flip through its pages, stopping on a blank one. She stares at it for a long moment, pen hovering, unmoving.
She doesn't write anything.
Something about that small moment sticks with me.
When the teacher finally comes in and class begins, I try really try to focus. I copy notes. I answer questions when called on. I even manage to stop myself from staring at the back of her head every thirty seconds.
But then something unexpected happens.
The teacher announces a surprise activity. Pair work.
My stomach drops.
"Choose a partner," he says casually, as if he hasn't just thrown my heart into chaos.
Chairs scrape against the floor as people turn to friends, already laughing and rearranging themselves. I stay still, pretending to look busy with my notebook. Pair work always feels like a reminder of how invisible I am. People don't choose me. They never really have.
I'm preparing myself for the familiar discomfort when I hear it.
"Um… excuse me."
Her voice.
I look up so fast I almost knock my pen off the desk. Amara is standing, half-turned toward me, her bag strap clutched nervously in her hand.
"Do you already have a partner?" she asks.
For a moment, I forget how to speak.
"No," I manage, my voice quieter than I want it to be. "I mean no, I don't."
She smiles. Not wide. Not dramatic. Just soft. Relieved.
"Okay. Then… can I sit here?"
I nod too quickly. "Yeah. Of course."
She pulls her chair closer, settling beside me. Not too close, but close enough that I can smell her shampoo something light, something floral. My heart beats so loudly I'm afraid she might hear it.
For a few seconds, neither of us says anything.
Then she laughs quietly. "This is awkward, isn't it?"
I let out a breath. "A little."
That makes her smile again, and somehow, the tension eases. We begin working through the assignment together, our voices low, our shoulders almost touching. She asks questions. I answer them. I ask questions too, surprised by my own courage.
She listens when I speak.
Really listens.
It's such a small thing, but it feels huge.
At one point, she leans over my notebook to read what I've written, her hair brushing my arm. My thoughts scatter instantly. I forget what the question even was.
"You explain things well," she says. "You're quiet, but… you're good at this."
The words hit me harder than they should.
"Thanks," I say, hoping she can't hear how much it means to me.
When the bell rings at the end of class, I feel it not relief this time, but loss. Too soon. Everything is always too soon.
Amara gathers her things and stands, hesitating just a little. "It was nice working with you," she says.
"Yeah," I reply. "It was."
She starts to turn away, then pauses. "By the way… your handwriting is really neat."
I blink. "You noticed?"
She nods. "I notice things."
And then she's gone, swallowed by the noise and movement of the hallway.
I sit there for a moment after everyone else leaves, heart still racing, mind replaying every word, every glance. When the classroom is finally empty, I pull out my notebook with shaking hands.
Dear Amara,
After the morning bell today, you chose me. And I don't think you understand what that did to my heart.
I close the notebook slowly, pressing my palm against the cover.
Maybe love doesn't start with grand confessions or dramatic moments.
Maybe it starts like this.
With a chair pulled closer.
With a voice saying my name.
With someone choosing to sit beside you
after the morning bell.