Unwritten

I notice everything about him.

How his fingers tap idly against his desk, the way his eyes flicker with thought before he speaks, how his voice changes depending on who he’s talking to—soft with teachers, teasing with his friends, hesitant when answering in class.

But never once with me.

I steal glances when he isn’t looking, but sometimes, just sometimes, I catch him doing the same. A quick shift of his gaze, a moment too brief to be certain, but enough to set my heart racing. My friend nudges me.

"You should talk to him."

But I never do. Because what if I’m wrong? What if his stolen glances don’t mean what I want them to? What if, in the end, I am just another nameless face to him? The thought alone is enough to keep my words locked away, trapped behind the walls of my own hesitation.

It’s just another day at school, and I’m still waiting for him.

He walks in, and like always, I take in everything. The way his hair falls messily over his forehead, how he tugs at the sleeves of his sweater, the slight furrow of his brows as if he's still half-lost in thought. His footsteps are quiet, but I know them by heart.

And then I notice something new.

“He changed seats again,” I whisper to my friend, trying to sound casual.

She barely glances up from her notebook before smirking. “Closer to you.”

I shoot her a look, but my heart stumbles over itself. Closer. Just barely, but enough that if he turned slightly, his gaze could find me without effort.

"Maybe it's a coincidence," I mutter, twirling my pen.

"Or maybe it's not," she teases. "Why don’t you just talk to him?"

I lower my voice, feeling the weight of my own hesitance. "And say what? ‘Hey, I’ve been secretly noticing everything about you for months’?"

She sighs dramatically. "Or, I don’t know, ‘Hi’?”

I don't reply. Instead, I do what I always do. I steal glances.

And then—eye contact.

A second, maybe two, before he looks away. But it’s enough to send my heart racing. My friend nudges me, grinning. "See? He looked at you first this time."

I say nothing. I don’t want to believe in something that might not be real.

The day passes in a blur of stolen glances and restless thoughts. I notice how he waits just a moment longer before leaving class, like he's expecting something. And when I step outside, I see him pacing near the gate, hesitating.

I whisper to my friend, "Do you think he's... waiting for someone?"

She raises a brow. "You mean, waiting for you?"

I shake my head, but the thought stays. Because when I start walking home—so does he.

Not before me, not long after. Just at the same time. As if waiting for the perfect moment to leave together—only for neither of us to say a word.

Days turn into weeks. Weeks into months. And in that time, I memorize everything. The way he tucks his pencil behind his ear when he’s deep in thought. The way his brows furrow ever so slightly when he concentrates. The way his fingers tap against his desk when he’s distracted.

He is my favorite story to read in silence.

And I wonder, does he notice me too?

Hope is a quiet thing, a seed that grows even when you try to ignore it. It settles in your chest, light at first, until it becomes something heavier, something unbearable. I carry it with me every day, hiding it behind shy smiles and hurried glances.

But then, something shifts.

The way he looks at me—less often, less lingering. The way he used to wait just a second longer before leaving class, as if expecting something—gone.

I still notice everything about him, but it feels like he’s forgetting me. Like I was never there to begin with.

One day, I catch myself waiting for a glance that never comes.

"You're thinking about him again," my friend says softly.

I press my lips together. "I think... he's moved on."

She hesitates before speaking. "And you?"

I swallow the lump in my throat and force a smile. "Still falling."

And suddenly, I realize—

I’ve only been falling deeper, while he’s learning to let go.

We never spoke.

We never loved.

And yet, I think he was my first heartbreak.

—

But on the other side of the room, someone else sits in silence, memorizing the way she twirls her pen, the way her eyes search the room for something—or someone.

I notice everything about her.

The way she leans just slightly forward when she’s paying attention, how she bites her lip when she’s nervous, how she glances up at me when she thinks I won’t notice.

I always notice.

It’s pathetic how much I hope.

I change my seat. Not by much, just enough. Close enough that I can hear when she murmurs to her friend, close enough that if I turn my head just slightly, I can see her without effort.

I wonder if she notices.

Then, a glance.

Too quick, too fleeting. But something in my chest tightens anyway.

I steal glances too. Maybe too many. Maybe too obvious. But I can’t help it. She’s there, and I’m drawn to her like something inevitable, something irreversible.

But I can never bring myself to speak.

"You should just talk to her."

My friend’s words don’t help. I don’t know how to explain it—how something as simple as a ‘hi’ feels impossible when it's her.

So I don’t.

Instead, I wait.

After class, I linger just a little longer. I don’t know what I expect, what I want, but some part of me hopes she’ll stop, turn, say something. But she never does.

So I leave. A few steps behind her.

Not before, not long after. Just at the same time. As if we could leave together—if only one of us would dare to say a word.

But days turn into weeks. Weeks into months. And I start to notice something else.

She looks at me less. Her glances are no longer hesitant but absent. The weight of something unspoken that once tied us together starts to fade.

I wonder if she’s finally given up.

I should too.

I try to.

But sometimes, even now, I catch myself looking for her.

And just for a second, I wish she had been the one to speak first.