The classroom was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner and the soft tapping of a pen on a notebook. I sat near the back, eyes on the board but really listening to my own thoughts. The professor's voice was a low background that I could almost ignore. My friend leaned over and whispered, "Bro, she's so cute. How can someone be that adorable?"
His words hit me hard. I had thought the same thing many times, but hearing it out loud made it feel real, and that made it hurt. I could feel a weight settle in my chest, a mix of envy and something that looked like fear.
I already had a feeling he liked her. Him, and that other guy too. The other guy was the quiet one who always sits two rows ahead, the one who never says much but when he smiles it seems to light up the room. Now one of them had just said it out loud, as if it were a secret they were all supposed to share.
My heart felt heavy. I tried to keep my face calm, but a smile tried to form on my lips. I forced my voice to sound bored. "Wow. So when are you going to ask her out?" I asked, trying not to sound excited.
He looked confused for a moment. Then he stared at me. "Hey, why are you smiling so much?"
My stomach dropped. Smiling? Was I? My hand moved fast and covered my mouth before I could even see what I was doing. My chest tightened. I had to look at her. I glanced across the room.
She was still there, head down on the table, arm over her eyes like she was trying to sleep. But from under her sleeve, one eye was open. It was wide and curious, and it was looking right at me.
Our eyes met.
A strange feeling shot through me. I quickly looked away, staring at the blank wall. Don't look. Don't let her see how you feel.
Which dark sky will this small, devastating star choose to light up?
I couldn't help it. I looked back.
She was still watching me.
I pressed my hand harder against my mouth, trying to crush the smile I couldn't stop. My heart kept beating fast.
Later, near the end of the day, I saw something in the hallway.
There they were. She and the other guy. Walking side by side, heading home. They were talking and laughing like it was the easiest thing in the world. It looked so normal.
The thought hit me like a punch to the gut.
I'm just a stepping stone here.
That night I lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. The fan above me was spinning around and around, making a soft whirring sound. My eyes followed it, but my mind was somewhere else entirely.
Okay, let's be honest. Why am I even looking at this fan? I don't know. Maybe because my mind feels just like that right now. Going in circles. Getting nowhere.
This feeling is awful. It's like a heavy weight behind my eyes. The room is so quiet, but the quiet feels loud, like it's waiting for me to understand something, and I can't.
I always thought love was a nice concept. Seeing people change when they're with someone special. They smile more. They seem happier. I guess I liked seeing that. Maybe I was even a little jealous.
But I always knew it wasn't for me.
Back in school, I liked a girl for two whole years. Every day, just seeing her walk into class made me happy. That was enough for me. I didn't need anything more. I never talked to her. Not one time. Not even a "hello." Forget telling her how I felt, I couldn't even say a simple "hi."
That's just who I am. The guy in the corner. The one who watches from the outside. I never step forward.
And now, years later, here I am. Nothing is different. There's another girl. She's not the same person, but it's the same old problem. She makes me smile without trying. I find myself looking at her and then have to make myself look away. Same story. Same problem. Same me.
That's the truth. I am still exactly the same.
I always tell myself it's because I'm shy. That talking to people makes me tired. Being with people, making small talk, pretending to be okay in a group… it feels like hard work. When someone tries to talk to me for a long time, I feel stuck. I can't breathe. And I tell myself I don't like people who talk too much. That their voices fill up the room until I feel smothered.
But if I'm being completely honest… I don't really hate them. I can't.
They're just living their lives. They're doing what normal people do. Talking, laughing, making friends, telling people they like them, moving on. That's what a normal life looks like. And me? I'm the one who can't do it. I'm the one who can't even start.
So maybe I don't hate them. Maybe I'm just jealous.
I'm jealous of how easy it is for them. I'm jealous of how they can just walk up to someone and start talking. How they can make friends so easily. And here I am, thinking about every little word until I decide not to say anything at all. I stop myself before I even try.
It's not that the world said no to me. No. I think I said no to myself first. And I don't know how to fix that.
It's pretty sad, right?
But I already know how this will end. It will be just like before. Nothing will change.
The fan just keeps turning. Round and round.
So… do I even want to change?
I don't know. Part of me does. Part of me wants to just… try. Say something. Do something. Just one time. See what it feels like. To be a part of things, I guess. To not be stuck behind a wall I built myself.
But… the other part? The part that's always been here, telling me to be quiet, to watch, to wait… it's safe. It's easy. I know what to expect. And maybe… maybe I'm just too afraid to see what happens if I try.
Or maybe… this is just who I am.
I look at everyone else. Laughing, talking, falling in love, getting hurt, and trying again. And I think, yeah, I'm living life wrong. I'm the one who's not doing it right. But… am I really? Maybe I just… fit in somewhere else. Maybe in my own head. Maybe in these same thoughts I have while watching the fan. Maybe that's my world, and everyone else is just… living in another one.
And honestly? That thought makes me sad.
The fan kept turning. Round and round.
I close my eyes and imagine a different ending. I picture myself walking up to her after class, my voice shaking but my words finally leaving my mouth. I imagine the other guy noticing and staying silent, letting the moment happen. I imagine a smile that isn't forced, a laugh that isn't afraid. I imagine a future where I am not the corner watcher, but the one who is seen.
But when I open my eyes the fan is still spinning, and the room is still dark. The ceiling fan does not care about my dreams. It just moves.
I think about the word "choice." Do I have a choice? Every time I look at that fan I feel that I could turn it off, that I could stop the circle. But the switch is not on the wall. It's inside me.
If I try to reach for it, my hand trembles. If I pull, the cord might break, and the fan will stop. If it stops, the room will be silent, and the silence feels louder than the whir.
I remember the first time I heard the fan in my parents' house. It was a summer night. The air was thick, the sky was a deep blue, and the fan was the only sound. My mother would sit on the porch and talk about her day, and I would sit in the dark listening to the hum. It made me feel safe. The fan was a promise that the night would pass.
Now the fan is a reminder that I am still waiting.
I stare at the ceiling and think of the girl's eye. That single eye that watched me. It felt like a light in the dark, like a star that refuses to be ignored. I wonder if she ever thought about me at all. Did she see the smile I tried to hide? Did she feel the same weight in her chest?
I can't know. I can only guess.
I turn my thoughts to the friend who said "she's so cute." He didn't mean to hurt me. He just said what he saw. Maybe I am supposed to be the one who sees, who notices, who feels. Maybe I am not meant to be the one who says anything.
The philosophy in my head whispers that everything is a choice. That a feeling is a fire, and we can either feed it or let it burn out. That the only thing that holds us back is the story we tell ourselves about why we can't move.
If the story is wrong, the fire can still die. If I keep telling myself that I'm a watcher, that I'm always the background, then the fire will stay small, hidden, never bright enough to be seen.
What if I change the story? What if I start by saying "hi" to someone I don't know? That is a small step, but it might be enough to start a new path.
I breathe. The fan's whir is still there, rhythmic, dependable. I close my eyes again and picture a simple scene: a hallway after class, a girl sitting alone at a table, her head down. I walk over, my shoes squeak on the linoleum, and I sit across from her. I say, "Hey."
My heart races, but my voice is quiet, not forced. It is just a word. That word is a key.
The idea scares me, but it also feels like a release. The fear that has kept me in the corner is still there, but it is not as heavy as before.
I open my eyes. The fan is still turning. The ceiling is still the same. My room is still the same. The only thing that could be different is the next moment.
I sit up, pull the blanket off, and get out of bed. I put my shoes on, grab my jacket, and walk to the door. The hallway is dark, but the fan's sound follows me like a heartbeat.
I do not know if I will see her today. I do not know if the other guy will be there. I do not know if my voice will shake. All I know is that I am moving. I am no longer only watching from the corner.
The fan keeps turning. It does not know about my doubts or my hopes. It just spins.
Maybe that is the point. The world does not wait for my decision. It moves whether I act or not. If I want to be part of that movement, I have to step into it.
I reach the door and pause. The hallway lights flicker on, casting a soft glow on the floor. I take a breath, feel the air on my face, and step forward.
The next chapter has not been written yet. I can only hope that the next line is not just a whisper in the dark, but a voice that can be heard.
The fan keeps turning. Round and round.
And for the first time in a long while, I feel a tiny spark of something that is not fear. It could be hope, or maybe just the courage to try.
I do not know how far this will take me, but I know that staying still feels worse than moving, even if the path is uncertain.
The fan kept spinning, round and round.
I'm overthinking again—wow. How many times will I circle back to the same thoughts? Days blur by, but nights… nights are always the same: the same thoughts, the same fan spinning, the same me lying here.
I'm so fake