I was an introvert long before I knew the word for it.

I had been pampered growing up, protected enough that I never really learned how to rely on myself— or let others rely on me. People rarely counted on me, and I never expected them to. Somewhere along the way, silence became easier than confidence.

I also believed I was mature.

Or at least, I wanted to be.

I watched people my age act careless, loud, childish, and decided early on that I wouldn’t be like that. I avoided anything that felt immature—not because I was wiser, but because I was afraid of being seen the wrong way. Staying reserved felt safer. Controlled. Grown.

And So, I don’t remember most things from my past. Faces fade easily, conversations disappear, and entire years blur together without leaving much behind. I’ve always been like that—quiet, distant, more comfortable observing than speaking. Being alone never felt strange to me. It was simply how my life worked.

That’s why the feeling unsettled me.

I saw her one day and thought I had seen her before. Not in any specific place, not in a memory I could trace back to something real—just a vague familiarity that didn’t belong to me. It made no sense. I wasn’t someone who noticed people, and I definitely wasn’t someone who imagined connections where none existed. Yet the thought stayed, stubborn and quiet, like it was waiting for me to acknowledge it.

I noticed her more as days passed—not intentionally, but naturally. She stood out without trying. When she became the vice captain of our class, I didn’t think much of it at first. Titles never impressed me. But I started observing her in small moments.

During class calls, she would write down the names of students who talked. Most vice captains would hand the list straight to the teacher. She didn’t. More often than not, she’d crumple the paper or toss it away. Even when the teacher insisted, she only submitted names if someone went too far. First and second offenses were usually forgiven.

I remember finding that strangely… adorable.

Not cute in a loud way. Quietly kind.

I didn’t interact much with my classmates, so it surprised me when one day I opened the class WhatsApp group. People were complaining about her—calling her “Lady Hitler,” a jerk, a teacher’s pet. Reading those messages made something tighten in my chest.

Not because it was her.

Because it felt wrong.

At that time, my sense of justice was simple but strong. Say what you want openly, or don’t say it at all. Don’t tear someone down behind their back when they’re just doing their duty. Without thinking too much, I typed my first message in that group. Then another. Then another. I defended the vice captain, word after word, replying to people I usually ignored.

A few minutes later, my phone buzzed.

It was her.

“Thank you,” she texted.

I replied honestly. I told her I only did what I felt was right. But the conversation didn’t end there. She opened up slowly—about how difficult it was to stand between responsibility and friendships, about how tiring it was to be strict and still be misunderstood, about how often she heard people talk behind her back.

I listened. And for the first time, I felt useful.

I told her she was doing her job. That she didn’t need to please everyone. That some roles were lonely by nature, and that didn’t make her wrong. We talked for a long time that night—longer than I was used to talking to anyone.

Before leaving, she said, “Thank you so much.”

Then added, “Good night. Dream the sweetest.”

I remember staring at my phone longer than necessary, feeling something warm rise to my face. I didn’t have a name for that feeling. I still don’t think it was love. But it was new—and it stayed with me.

From that day on, we texted almost every day. Conversations flowed easily there, in that quiet digital space where my shyness couldn’t interrupt me. Sometimes we joked about how I barely spoke to her in class, how I didn’t even look her way. She said it made her a little sad. I joked about finally talking to her someday, even though I failed every time the chance appeared.

Until once, I didn’t.

After class, while walking home, our paths crossed. She approached me first. I managed a greeting, my voice shaky but present. We talked—just a little. She had a friend with her, so the moment stayed short. Still, it mattered.

When we separated, she turned back, waved her hand high in the air, and called out,

“Bye-bye, Eshan!”

She smiled when she said it.

That image—her wave, her voice, that smile—burned itself into my memory in a way nothing else ever had. And even then, I didn’t realize it, but something had already begun.

After that day, I started trying more.

Not confidently. Not successfully.

Just… more.

By some coincidence, I had become the class captain around that time. It wasn’t something I had aimed for, and it didn’t suddenly make me braver. If anything, it only made my stiffness more visible. I stood in front of people more often, spoke when needed, and returned to silence just as quickly.

One afternoon, sweeping duty came up. Three roll numbers were assigned, and Lyra was one of them. She came up to me and told me to remove the roll number of a student who was absent and write the next one instead, so three people could sweep.

I nodded.

But somewhere between that moment and the end of class, a thought formed quietly in my head. I decided I wouldn’t change the name. I thought I would stay back instead. Help her sweep. Say nothing about it. Just do it.

When the bell rang and everyone started leaving, she looked at me. Not angry—just questioning. A look that asked why I hadn’t done what she said.

I froze.

I couldn’t explain myself. I couldn’t even open my mouth. My body stiffened the way it always did when something mattered too much. So instead of speaking, I walked over, picked up the broom, and started sweeping.

She startled.

She told me it was fine. That she could do it herself. She told me not to sweep.

Before I could say a single word, she chased me out of the classroom.

I stood outside for a moment, confused and embarrassed, holding intentions I had never managed to explain. I told myself I’d wait until she was done, and then I’d say something—anything.

I waited near the bottom gate.

About twenty minutes passed.

When I finally went to check, the classroom was empty. She had already left, long ago, through the front gate.

I never brought it up later.

I never explained myself in texts.

I was too embarrassed to turn something that clumsy into words.

There were other moments too.

Sometimes I would visit my best friend who lived nearby, and I’d go into her kitchen to ask Lyra for notes. I didn’t even write notes properly. I’d borrow them, return them after a few days—small excuses, really. Small chances to talk.

But conversations never lasted.

I’d stand there awkwardly, say a few sentences, smile when needed, and leave feeling like I had failed at something simple again. Every attempt felt like proof that I was better at existing in messages than in real life.

Because in texts, I was different.

Not fearless—but lighter.

Words came easily there. I joked without thinking, teased without fear, spoke without rehearsing sentences in my head first. I could pause before replying, erase mistakes, choose the right tone. Behind a screen, I didn’t freeze.

We talked every day.

Long conversations that stretched without effort. Some days were playful—random jokes, meaningless arguments, shared laughter over things that wouldn’t have mattered to anyone else. Other days were quieter. Comfortable. Time slipped by without either of us noticing.

We often joked about how I barely spoke to her in class. About how I didn’t even look her way despite being so free in texts. She said it made her a little sad. I joked about finally talking to her someday, even though I failed every time the chance appeared.

Somewhere between those jokes and late replies, she started opening up more.

Not suddenly. Slowly. Naturally.

She talked about her life. About the pressure she felt. About family issues she never mentioned in class. About feeling misunderstood even when she was surrounded by people. She talked about her insecurities—about doubting herself, about feeling like she always had to be strong, even when she didn’t want to be.

I listened.

I didn’t interrupt. I didn’t rush to fix things. I told her what I genuinely felt—that her struggles didn’t make her weak, that she was allowed to feel tired, that responsibility didn’t mean she had to carry everything alone.

And every time she opened up, I felt something steady settle inside me.

I liked being there for her.

I liked knowing my words could make things feel a little lighter for someone else.

That feeling was new to me. I wasn’t used to being needed. I wasn’t used to being trusted with the parts of someone’s life that weren’t shown to everyone.

In real life, I still struggled to meet her eyes.

In texts, I knew exactly what to say.

It felt strange, living as two versions of myself—one silent and awkward in front of her, the other expressive and present every night. I didn’t question it then. I just accepted that this was how things worked.

And without realizing it, texting her stopped feeling like something I did.

It started feeling like something I needed.

Our conversations continued the same way—long, unforced, natural. Some days we talked about nothing at all. Other days, she opened up in ways that felt heavier, more personal. She spoke about her worries, the pressure she felt, the expectations people placed on her. About her family. About feeling like she always had to be strong, even when she didn’t want to be.

I didn’t try to fix anything.

I just stayed.

Sometimes she talked about love.

Or rather, about why she didn’t believe in it.

She spoke calmly, like it was a conclusion she had reached long ago. Love, to her, was unreliable—something people promised and failed to protect. Something that hurt more than it healed.

I didn’t argue.

The truth was, I didn’t believe in love much either. Not the way people described it, not the way stories made it look effortless and certain. Still, when I spoke, I spoke gently. Not because I was convinced—but because I wanted her to feel like it was possible. I told her maybe one day she could try believing in it again. Not because it always worked, but because she deserved to feel loved at least once.

She didn’t agree.

She didn’t disagree either.

Life in school stayed the same. I was still quiet in class, still unsure how to talk to her when she stood right in front of me. We existed in the same space without really meeting there. The distance between us wasn’t physical—it was the difference between who I was in messages and who I was in real life.

Then one day, I heard a rumour.

Lyra and a guy from our class—Mike.

People said they were dating.

My first reaction was disbelief. Knowing how fiercely she dismissed love, the idea didn’t feel real. It didn’t match the version of her I knew. Rumours had a way of growing out of nothing.

But then I started noticing things I hadn’t before.

The way they talked easily in school.

The way they stood close, laughed, walked together.

Nothing obvious. Nothing that confirmed anything. Just enough to make me feel… aware.

I didn’t feel angry.

I didn’t feel betrayed.

I felt something quieter.

A small, uncomfortable jealousy—not of him, but of how easily he could be there with her. How natural it looked. How real it was.

I caught myself wishing I could be like that in front of her. Wishing I didn’t freeze. Wishing the version of myself she knew so well through texts could exist outside of them too.

I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t ask her about it.

I carried the feeling alone, unsure of what it meant, unsure of whether I even had the right to feel it.

Some time passed after that. The rumour didn’t grow louder, and it didn’t disappear either. It just existed in the background, like something unfinished. And the longer I sat with it, the more curious I became.

So one night, I asked the only way I knew how.

Lightly.

Carelessly.

As a joke.

I brought it up casually in our conversation, half-expecting her to laugh it off or change the topic. Instead, she replied simply.

She said she wasn’t dating anyone.

She said she still didn’t believe in love.

There was no hesitation in her words.

That should have been the end of it. I should have let it go there. But something in me—maybe curiosity, maybe comfort, maybe trust—pushed me to ask one more thing.

I told her she didn’t have to answer if she didn’t want to. I asked if it was too much to ask. And then I asked why she denied love so fiercely.

She didn’t reply immediately.

When she finally did, the tone was different.

She told me about her parents.

They had a love marriage. A real one—the kind people admired from the outside. But it didn’t last the way love stories promised. What began with choice slowly turned into conflict, disappointment, and distance. Watching that happen up close taught her something early: that love wasn’t protection, and choosing someone didn’t mean they would stay kind.

Then she told me about her childhood.

About people who said they loved her in ways that weren’t love at all. People who crossed boundaries. People who made her feel unsafe. People who left behind fear instead of comfort.

She didn’t dramatize it.

She didn’t ask for sympathy.

She just explained.

Love, to her, wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t safe.

It wasn’t something she wanted to trust again.

I didn’t interrupt.

I didn’t try to soften it.

I didn’t defend love this time.

I just listened.

And in that moment, I understood something I hadn’t before—not about love, but about her. About why she held herself the way she did. About why she stayed guarded even when she was kind. About why believing in love felt more dangerous to her than denying it ever could.

That night, nothing between us changed outwardly.

But something settled quietly inside me.

A deeper understanding.

A heavier respect.

And a feeling I still didn’t name—but one I carried more carefully than before.