"Guy, just ask her out already,"
Kelechi had said as they left the classroom together, nudging him with that knowing smirk that only irritated him more when he was already anxious.
Tari didn't respond. What was he supposed to say? That Ella's silence had crawled under his skin and taken root in his bones? That every time she ignored him, it hurt more than when she actually spoke? That he wasn't sure if she ever thought about him the way he thought about her — obsessively, constantly, helplessly?
Ella was not the kind of girl you had casual feelings for. She didn't giggle unnecessarily or twirl her hair or do that thing where girls tried to catch your eye on purpose. No. Ella looked at you like she saw through you, and then looked away like it didn't matter.
There was something painfully magnetic about her — a quiet danger, a fierce elegance. She wasn't just pretty. She was untouchable.
And for a boy like Tari, born into comfort but starved of genuine affection, she was everything he didn't even know he needed.
He remembered the fIrst time he noticed her.
It wasn't some dramatic moment. She was just walking past him in the hallway, her expression unreadable, her uniform a little wrinkled, her bag sliding off her shoulder. But there was something about the way she carried herself — like she had secrets, like she was always somewhere else in her mind. From that day, he watched her more than he should have. Quietly. Carefully. Always from the background.
But it wasn't until they started talking late at night that he knew he was in trouble.
The first call had been about a class project. She called him briefly to clarify something about their economics presentation. Her voice had been low, tired, almost like she was whispering in the dark. But it did something to him.
It calmed him in a way he didn't expect. The more they spoke, the later they stayed up. One night turned into several, and slowly, the conversation shifted from school to random things — food cravings, annoying siblings, childhood memories. She had laughed once, softly, and he'd closed his eyes, memorizing the sound like it was a song he never wanted to forget. Her voice at midnight became his favorite thing.
She didn't know it, but she had saved him from the numbness of his own home. His house was a polished graveyard — clean, well-decorated, full of everything money could buy, yet cold and loveless. His parents barely spoke.
When they did, it was clipped, businesslike. The kind of home that made silence echo. But then Ella's voice would pierce through it, soft and clear in his ear, and suddenly everything felt lighter. Less lonely.
But she had changed lately. She barely looked at him in class. Her eyes were distant. Her smile, which was already rare, had disappeared entirely. He noticed the way she chewed her pen during lectures, her brows furrowed, as if her mind was drowning in thoughts.
And though she didn't say a word, he could sense that something was wrong. He wanted to ask. Wanted to hold her hand and demand the truth. But with Ella, you didn't ask for pieces of her. You waited. You waited and hoped she would offer them willingly.
Still, it hurt. Her distance. Her silence. Her calculated disregard for the way he looked at her like she held his sanity in her hands. Kelechi said he was wasting time, that Ella was a heartbreaker who probably already had a lineup of boys.
Zinny, ever the gossip queen, teased him ruthlessly, even claiming he must be in love. And maybe he was. Because no other girl had made him feel so uncertain and so alive at the same time.
So he sent the text. Finally. After rehearsing a hundred versions of it. He kept it simple: "Can we talk after school tomorrow? I have something to ask you." It took him three hours to press send. She didn't reply. He didn't sleep.
He'd thought of what he'd say when she finally stood in front of him after class. Maybe something lighthearted to ease the tension, like "You've been living in my head rent-free, want to sign a lease?" Or maybe something honest and simple: "I like you. More than I should." But the truth was, there was no perfect line.
He just wanted to know if there was even a crack in her wall, something small enough for him to slip into and stay.
He was scared. Not of rejection — not really. But of indifference. He could handle a no. What he couldn't handle was her not feeling anything at all. Because Tari had never looked at any other girl the way he looked at Ella. Not before her. Probably not after her either.
He waited for the final bell like a soldier waits for war — nervous, tense, heart pounding. When she finally walked out the gate, he was there, leaning against the wall, trying to look calm even though every part of him was screaming. She hadn't noticed him yet.
He took a deep breath, stepped forward, and prepared to do what he had been afraid to do for weeks.
Ask her the question that might change everything.