CHAPTER TWO — WHEN IT WAS JUST US

Dear You,

Before I tell you what happened that night, maybe I should tell you how it all started.

Because the truth is, I didn't notice you in the beginning. Not in the way I eventually would.

You were just someone I knew. Someone I could talk to when we happened to be around each other. Someone who could make me laugh over something completely stupid. Someone whose presence felt familiar long before I ever stopped to wonder why.

There was nothing special about it. At least, that's what I thought.

School had a way of making people familiar without you realizing it. You saw the same faces every day, heard the same voices, walked through the same corridors, complained about the same teachers and waited for the same bell to ring. You became used to people. And somehow, without either of us deciding it, I became used to you.

We talked about ordinary things. Sometimes it was schoolwork. Sometimes it was something one of our friends had done. Sometimes it was nothing important at all.

Those were the conversations I remember most now. Not because they were particularly meaningful, but because they didn't feel like they needed to be.

I never had to prepare myself before talking to you. I could simply walk over. You could call my name. We could start talking.

And then, somewhere along the way, something changed.

I can't tell you exactly when. There wasn't one particular day when I woke up and suddenly saw you differently. It happened quietly.

I started noticing when you were around.

Then I started noticing when you weren't.

At first, I didn't think much of it. If I entered a room and saw you, I was happy to see a familiar face. If I didn't see you, I simply assumed you were somewhere else.

That was all.

Or at least, that was what I told myself.

Then came the little things.

The way you sometimes looked at me when you thought I wasn't paying attention. The way conversations could stretch longer than they needed to. The way you seemed to notice small changes in my mood.

Once, I was unusually quiet, and you asked me what was wrong.

"Nothing," I said.

You looked at me for a moment.

"You're sure?"

I nodded.

You didn't argue with me. You just stayed.

I remember that more than I remember whatever had made me quiet that day. It wasn't a grand gesture. You didn't say anything particularly profound. You simply didn't leave.

And somehow, that stayed with me.

There were other moments too. Moments that probably meant nothing to you. A joke that made me laugh when I wasn't expecting it. A conversation that continued long after everyone else had left. The occasional teasing. The comfortable silence.

And sometimes, the way you would reach for my hand as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Those moments confused me.

Not immediately.

At first, I didn't let myself think about them at all. Whenever someone teased me about you, I laughed it off.

"Please. We're just friends."

And I believed myself.

I had to.

Because admitting that I was beginning to notice you differently would have meant admitting that something had changed.

And I wasn't ready for that.

So I kept calling it friendship.

Maybe it was friendship.

Maybe it was simply two people who had become comfortable around each other.

Maybe I was the one giving ordinary moments meanings they didn't have.

I didn't know.

What I did know was that I began looking forward to seeing you. I began remembering things you'd said without trying. I began wondering whether you'd be around before I even reached school.

And sometimes, when we were talking, I'd catch myself watching you instead of listening to whatever you were saying.

Then I'd quickly look away.

I didn't want anyone to notice.

Especially you.

There was one afternoon when we were sitting together, talking about something I can't even remember now.

You were laughing.

I don't remember what you had said. I only remember looking at you and thinking that I liked seeing you happy.