He Taught Me Chemistry, I Learned Love”

I still remember the first day I joined coaching after school. Tired from classes and heavy books, I walked into a new world—one filled with dreams of entrance exams, sharp smells of markers, and teachers I’d never met. Among them was a man who taught me Chemistry.

At first glance, I didn’t like him. Maybe it was his sharp tone or the way he walked into the class like he owned the world. But days turned into weeks, and slowly, something changed. I don’t know when or how—but I fell in love with him.

It wasn’t just the subject he taught that started making sense—it was him. His eyes had a depth that made me forget the questions he asked. His hair always perfectly in place, his tall frame, the quiet confidence in his walk, and that undeniable intelligence—everything about him made my heart race.

My classroom was on the third floor, but I started taking detours just to pass the fourth floor—just to get one glimpse of him. I would walk for miles, sometimes in the heat, sometimes tired and breathless, but always with a little hope tucked in my chest: maybe today I’ll see him.

When he asked me questions in class, my mind would go completely blank. Not because I didn’t know the answers—but because I’d lose myself in his eyes. Every day, I’d find a new reason to admire him. And every night, I would talk about him to myself like he was a poem only I had read.

I always wanted to tell him how I felt. I’d imagine it a hundred times—how I’d look into his eyes and say all the things I never said out loud. But how do you compress a thousand feelings into a few words?

One day, I gathered all the courage in the world. I had decided that today would be the day. I’d finally tell him everything. But before I could speak, he stood before the class and said with a smile:

“I’m getting married this December.”

That was it.

My world paused. The smile I had rehearsed turned into tears I couldn’t hold back. I went home and cried like I’d lost a part of myself. My heart broke in places I didn’t know existed.

He doesn’t know. He may never know.

And I know I’ll never have him.

But even now, long after the classes ended and my life moved on, a part of me still lives on the fourth floor. Still walks those stairs. Still loves him quietly, hopelessly, endlessly.

Because some loves are not meant to be stories told out loud.

They are meant to be lived in silence—and remembered forever.