In Love with My Classmate

In every classroom photo, she’s there—always sitting two rows behind me, sometimes smiling, sometimes looking out the window, daydreaming. Her name was Liyana, and though we spent three years in the same college class, we never exchanged more than a polite nod or a borrowed pen.

But sometimes, the person you’re meant to love is sitting in the same room for years, waiting for the moment your paths truly cross.

We were classmates, not friends. We shared the same lectures, the same notes, the same exhausted yawns during 8 a.m. labs. But we belonged to different circles. She was quiet, the kind who only spoke when asked but always left people wanting to hear more. I was social—known for organizing class events and cracking jokes before exams. I thought I knew everyone. I didn’t.

In our final semester, everything changed.

It started with a group project.

Our professor split the class randomly into pairs for a major presentation. When he called out my name followed by hers, I barely reacted. “Liyana,” I repeated, glancing at her with a casual smile. She gave a small nod.

That afternoon, we sat together in the college library, deciding how to divide the work. Her voice was soft, steady, and full of ideas. She wasn’t shy—just thoughtful. She took notes while I talked, then suggested we meet at the café near campus to finalize the outline.

We met the next evening, and I noticed things I never had before.

Liyana tucked her hair behind her ear when she got nervous. She ordered black coffee with a little too much sugar. She laughed with her eyes more than her mouth. And most importantly—she listened. Really listened. When I told her about my stress over balancing studies and part-time work, she didn’t just nod—she asked questions, leaned in, shared her own stories.

“I thought you were always so confident,” she said.

“I thought you were always so quiet,” I replied.

We both smiled, surprised by how wrong we’d been.

Over the next two weeks, we worked together almost every day. In the library, on video calls, over coffee. Our project turned out great—but what was blooming between us felt even better.

One day, while waiting for her outside class, I saw her sitting under a tree alone, sketching in a notebook. I had no idea she drew.

“You’re full of secrets,” I said, sitting beside her.

“And you’re full of assumptions,” she replied, smirking.

We talked for hours. About everything. Our childhoods, favorite songs, heartbreaks we never shared. She told me about her mother who always pushed her to stay focused and quiet. I told her about my older brother who told me to be louder than everyone else just to be noticed.

“I think we both became who we needed to survive,” she said.

That night, I realized—I didn’t just like Liyana. I admired her. She was different from anyone I’d known. She didn’t crave attention. She didn’t need loud rooms. She existed like poetry—gentle, beautiful, and real.

After our presentation, which was met with applause and compliments, we stood outside the college gate, both quiet.

“I’m going to miss this,” I said.

“What? Presenting?” she teased.

“No,” I said, looking at her. “Us.”

She looked away, her fingers playing with the strap of her bag.

“I don’t want it to end either,” she said softly.

That night, we went for a walk. No destination. Just two people, walking side by side under a starry sky, hearts speaking in the silence.

“Can I ask you something?” I said as we stopped at a park bench.

“Anything,” she replied.

“Did you ever notice me… before this?”

She smiled. “I noticed you on the first day of college. You made the whole class laugh by doing an impression of the physics teacher.”

I laughed. “Wow. You remember that?”

She nodded. “I remember everything. I just never thought someone like you would notice someone like me.”

I reached out, gently taking her hand.

“I didn’t notice you before,” I admitted. “But now I can’t stop.”

The first time we kissed, it was slow, unsure, but full of unspoken words. The kind of kiss that says, Where have you been all this time?

From that moment, things changed.

We were still classmates, still surrounded by friends and lectures and assignments—but now, we shared a world within that world. We passed notes in class, studied together in the library, laughed over the same jokes. I discovered her favorite color was mustard yellow. She found out I was afraid of heights. We weren’t perfect, but we were real.

And real felt better than anything.

But final semester meant one thing—the end was near. Graduation. Jobs. New cities.

I had a job offer in Lahore. She had one in Karachi.

“Long-distance is hard,” she said one evening as we walked through campus.

“So is pretending we don’t love each other,” I replied.

She looked at me, her eyes unsure.

“Do you love me?” she whispered.

I didn’t answer with words.

I held her face, looked into her eyes, and kissed her with every truth I had.

“I do,” I whispered. “I think I have for a while.”

She hugged me, tight, like she didn’t want to let go. And for that moment, we didn’t.

We promised to try. And we did.

The months that followed were tough. Video calls, late-night messages, long silences when work got busy. But love finds a way.

A year later, I transferred to Karachi.

I surprised her outside her office with flowers and her favorite coffee.

“You’re here?” she said, eyes wide.

“I told you. I’m not letting us become a memory.”

She laughed and cried at the same time.

Now, three years later, we’re still together.

We still joke about how it took a project to bring us close. We still sit together and talk for hours. We still remember every line of our presentation.

She’s still the girl who sketches when no one’s looking. I’m still the boy who assumed too much.

But now, we’re also best friends, partners, lovers.

Love with my classmate wasn’t loud. It was quiet, steady, and meant to be.

Have you ever fallen in love with someone you thought you knew—but didn’t really know at all? Tell your story and inspire someone else to look a little closer.

Note:
This article was created with the assistance of AI (ChatGPT), then manually edited for originality, accuracy, and alignment with Vocal Media’s guidelines.