In 10th grade, I used to believe that youth was nothing more than endless school days, stressful exams, and the sound of the school bell repeating like a reminder that life was never going to be special. Until I met him. He sat at the very back of the classroom—tall, quiet, with eyes that always looked distant, as if he carried a world no one could touch. He rarely spoke, so much that the class almost forgot he existed. But I didn’t. I don’t know why, but every time my eyes accidentally wandered to the last row, my heart would skip a beat. One day, the sky suddenly poured heavy rain. I forgot my umbrella and stood under the school roof, staring at the water streaming across the empty yard, feeling a strange loneliness rising inside me. And then he appeared. Without asking much, he held his umbrella out in front of me and said in a low, warm voice, “Want to walk home together?” I hadn’t even answered yet, but he had already slowed his steps, as if he knew I would follow. On the way home, the rain tapped softly against the umbrella, and the distance between us was so close that I could feel the warmth coming from him. I didn’t dare say a word, afraid my racing heartbeat would give everything away. After that day, he began to appear in my life in the quietest way. When I got a bad grade and buried my face on the desk, he placed a carton of milk beside me along with a small note that read, “Don’t be sad. You’re better than you think.” When I was misunderstood by others, he didn’t shout or defend me loudly—he simply stood in front of me and said one sentence strong enough to silence the whole class: “Don’t speak if you don’t know the truth.” He never said sweet words, yet everything he did made me feel protected. Slowly, I realized… he was no longer just a stranger sitting at the back of the room. He became a habit, a part of my everyday life, the reason my school days started to feel meaningful. Then graduation day arrived. The schoolyard was filled with laughter, red phoenix flowers blooming everywhere, and rushed goodbyes. I saw him standing in the crowd, and suddenly I felt scared—scared that summer would take everything away, scared that one day I wouldn’t be able to see him again. Gathering all my courage, I ran toward him, my hands trembling as I grabbed the edge of his shirt, my voice breaking, “Hey… when we move up to the next grade, will you still remember me?” He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes deep as if they held an entire sky. Then he smiled—a rare smile, but so beautiful it made my heart melt. He gently ruffled my hair like it was something he had wanted to do for a long time, and whispered, “I never forgot. I was just waiting for you to realize how much I mean to you.” In that moment, I finally understood. Youth isn’t made of boring days like I once believed. Youth is the rain that day, the small umbrella we shared, the quiet boy who was always there, and the way my heart beats faster every time I hear his voice. Rain may stop, time may pass, but he… will always be the warmest sunshine in my heart.
