There she is again. Sitting by the window, absentmindedly twirling her pen, lost in her own world. I wonder what she’s thinking about. Maybe she’s plotting a story, or just zoning out, waiting for the bell to ring. Either way, she looks… calm. The kind of calm I can’t seem to find within myself right now.
Because all I can think about is talking to her.
Not in some grand, dramatic way. I don’t need fireworks or violins playing in the background. I just want to say something—a normal, effortless sentence. A “Hey, how’s it going?” or “What did you think of the class today?” But every time I try, my brain turns into a buffering screen, and my tongue ties itself into an impossible knot.
I’ve rehearsed this moment so many times in my head.
Scenario 1: I walk up, act casual. She smiles. We talk. We laugh. She thinks, Hey, this guy isn’t so bad.
Scenario 2: I fumble, forget how words work, and she looks at me like I’m speaking an alien language. I spend the next three years reliving the embarrassment.
Right now, my brain keeps leaning toward Scenario 2.
It’s not that I think she’d be mean. No, she doesn’t seem like the type to mock people. She’s kind—the kind of kind that makes her seem a little intimidating, like the sun. Too bright to look at for too long. Too warm to get too close without burning yourself.
I wonder if she’s ever noticed me. I mean, we’ve exchanged glances before. Tiny, fleeting moments where our eyes met before she looked away, unaware of the way my heart stuttered in my chest. And that one time—God, that one time—she actually smiled at me. I don’t even know if it was intentional, but it happened, and I replayed it in my head so many times that I’ve probably altered reality by now.
What if she already knows? What if I’m so obvious that she’s just waiting for me to say something? Or worse—what if she doesn’t care at all?
I sigh, running my hand through my hair, trying to shake off the nerves. If I don’t do it now, I never will. I steal another glance at her. She’s still there, still lost in thought. The window beside her is open slightly, letting the soft afternoon breeze lift a few strands of her hair.
This is it. I’m doing it.
I push back my chair, stand up, and take a step forward. My pulse is a drum in my ears. My mind is still scrambling for the perfect words, but I know if I wait for perfection, I’ll never get anywhere.
I reach her table, clear my throat—she looks up. And suddenly, all my rehearsed lines vanish.
Her eyes meet mine, curious and expectant.
And I say—
“Uh… hi.”
Not the wittiest start. Not the smoothest delivery. But it’s something.
And when she smiles—actually smiles—I realize maybe that’s all I ever needed to say.
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