We became close in the most unexpected way — through a school project.
It wasn't planned. Our names were randomly paired together because of the project. I remember the nervous flutter in my stomach when the teacher read her name after mine. I tried not to look too excited, but inside, something bloomed. This was my chance — not just to be near her, but to finally speak without awkward silences.
We exchanged numbers, and for the first time, I had a reason to text her. At first, it was strictly about the project. "What time should we meet?" "Do you want to use slides or a chart?" "Can you send me your part?" But slowly, the texts became more casual. More human. A joke slipped in here. A meme there. And then suddenly, she wasn't just my senior anymore — we were talking like friends.
She had this way of teasing me that made me blush, but I'd pretend I didn't care. I laughed too hard at her jokes. I double-checked every message before sending it, hoping I sounded cool — or at least normal.
We stayed late after school once, working on the project together in the library. I remember watching her write, her handwriting messy but full of personality. She looked up at me once and smiled. That smile. It did something permanent to me.
From then on, it wasn't just about school anymore. She'd wave when she saw me. We started sitting closer during breaks. She'd sometimes lean in and whisper things to me during class — nothing important, just little secrets that made me feel like I mattered.
That was how it began.
I didn't need much. Just her voice, her attention, her presence.
It felt like my heart was learning a new language — one only she could speak.
And that was the start of the ache — the one that comes from being almost close, but never quite enough.
The more we talked, the more I wanted. Not in a greedy way — just in the way someone who's starving clings to every crumb.
We began texting more often. It wasn't every day, but it was enough to make my heart leap whenever her name popped up on my screen. She'd send voice notes sometimes — her voice was softer than I imagined. I listened to them over and over, memorizing the little laughs between her words.
I started finding excuses to message her — silly reasons, like asking about a show she mentioned or pretending I didn't understand part of the homework. She always replied. Not always quickly, but kindly.
There were moments that felt like magic. Like when she randomly called me one night just to talk. I was in bed, the lights off, the moon outside glowing like it knew all my secrets. I walked around the house quietly so no one would hear, my heart pounding like it might break through my chest.
We talked for almost an hour. About everything. About nothing. About school. Music. Food. Life.
I didn't want the call to end.
When it did, I stared at the ceiling, smiling like an idiot, hugging my pillow like it could hold all the feelings I couldn't say out loud.
She was becoming my favorite part of every day — even the ones we didn't talk. Just knowing she existed in my world made things feel lighter.
But there was a heaviness, too. A silent fear that I was falling too fast, too deep, and that one day, she'd pull away.
Still, I didn't stop. I couldn't.
Because even if she didn't love me back, even if I was always going to be the one who cared more — just having her in my life felt like enough.
For now.
But some nights, I cried quietly into my pillow because even though she was just a text away, she still felt oceans apart. I wanted to scream at the stars, "Why her? Why me? Why this kind of love that hurts but never ends?"
I knew every word she said by heart, and still, it was the silence between them that echoed louder.
Every time I looked at her, I wanted to reach out and say, "Please don't go. Please stay." But I never did. Because I knew — deep down — that staying wasn't something I could ask from her.
So I loved her quietly, like the moon loves the sea — pulling close, but never able to touch.