The pandemic had changed everything how we learned, how we lived, and how we saw the world. By Grade 10, we were no longer attending classes in person, our faces framed in tiny boxes on a screen. But even in that strange, disconnected reality, there she was.
Her name was Trishabelle.
First saw her during an online class at the start of Grade 10. She wasn't just another student on the screen; SHE stood out. Even through the pixelated blur, I could tell she was different. Her smile was warm, her eyes kind, and when she spoke, her voice carried a calm confidence that made everything seem easy. She was smart, effortlessly so, and every word she spoke made me want to listen.
At first, I didn't have the courage to say a word to her. The thought of reaching out seemed impossible, especially to someone like her. She was everything I admired—beautiful, intelligent, kind—and I was just the quiet weird kid who never knew what to say. I had no idea how to approach her, especially through a screen.
Then Senior High came, and things started to shift. I started dressing better get better grades and even though the world was still dealing with the aftermath of the pandemic, we were finally back in classrooms. And, just by fate, her room was right next to mine. Every time I passed by it, I'd catch glimpses of her through the window, her dark hair falling just right, her face glowing with a kind of energy that made everything feel brighter her eyes through her lenses that always captured me. But I never said anything. How could I? She was in a different section and a different world from me.
But then, something changed.
We both always end up in the same spot in the canteen. I don't know how it happened, but every time I walked in, there she was with her friend, just a few steps away.
I'd tell myself it was just a coincidence, but after a while, I started to look forward to those accidental encounters. I'd get the courage to nod at her, maybe even smile, but that was about all I could manage.
Then one day, something shifted in me. I was standing by the counter, waiting to order, when I saw her at the drink station, deciding between two options. My heart beat a little faster, and before I could stop myself, I walked over to her.
"Hey, Trishabelle," I said, my voice a little shaky, but I couldn't hold it back. "What are you getting?"
She looked up, her eyes lighting up with recognition, a small smile playing on her lips. "Oh, hey, Carl," she replied, her voice smooth and warm. "I'm just trying to decide if I want the iced tea or the lemon drink. What do you think?"
I stood there for a second, caught off guard by how casual and easy she made it feel. I hadn't expected to talk to her, let alone ask her opinion on drinks.
"Well… I'd go with the iced tea," I said, laughing nervously. "It's kind of refreshing on a day like this."
Her smile grew, and I couldn't help but feel a little lighter. "Yeah, you're right," she said, still looking at me with that soft, knowing expression. "I'll go with the iced tea then."
We continued chatting, about the drinks, about school, about random things. It wasn't anything significant, but for me, it felt like a huge moment. It was the first real conversation we'd had and I'd started it.
I spoke to her without overthinking it.
That was the start.
From there, things got easier. Our casual exchanges in the canteen turned into longer talks, after-school hangouts, late-night texts. There was no rush, no pressure. It just felt like something simple and natural, like we had always been destined to be a part of each other's lives, even if it was still undefined.
We didn't label it—at least, not at first. There were no promises, no grand declarations. But something was there. We'd catch each other's eyes in the hallway, and there was a quiet understanding. She'd lean in a little closer when she spoke to me, and I'd find myself smiling for no reason at all when I saw her name light up on my phone. It felt like we were something—something real—but the kind of real that was undefined, like an unspoken agreement that we both knew exactly what it was without saying it.
Then came January 7th, my birthday.
I had been thinking about her more than ever, wondering if maybe, just maybe, this thing we had could turn into something more. That day, I was sitting alone in the park, just trying to enjoy the quiet, when my phone buzzed. It was Trishabelle.
"Happy birthday, Carl!" she texted, followed by a few heart emojis.
It was sweet, of course, but in the back of my mind, I couldn't stop wondering: What are we? The whole time we'd been talking, texting, and hanging out, it had felt like we were something more than just friends. But I needed to know—was this just a passing thing, or was it really the start of something?
So, with my heart racing and the words feeling heavy in my chest, I typed back.
"Thanks, Trishabelle," I replied. "But, um… I need to ask. What are we, exactly?"
There was a pause, then a simple "?" from her.
I could practically feel her waiting on the other side of the screen. Her next message came quickly: "Well, Carl? Are you going to tell me what you've been thinking or what?"
I froze. She was teasing me now, and I knew she was. The pressure of her waiting was almost unbearable. I had a thousand thoughts running through my head—What if she doesn't feel the same? What if I ruin everything by saying the wrong thing?
She followed up again, "Come on, just tell me. What are we?"
I couldn't do it. The words wouldn't come. I just stared at the screen, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Carl," she sent another message. "I'm waiting... are you really gonna make me ask you first?"
My fingers were shaking, and I almost laughed at how ridiculous it was. I wanted to say it, but the thought of actually putting it into words felt impossible.
Five minutes passed, and I still hadn't replied. She sent another text: "Carl… are you ever going to say it?"
"I—" I started, but I couldn't finish the sentence. She was making me nervous, teasing me, pushing me to say the one thing I'd been scared to say all along.
Another minute passed. I took a deep breath. The words were so simple, but they felt like they carried the weight of everything.
"I like you," I typed. "I really like you, Trishabelle. A lot. I've wanted to say it for a while, but I didn't know if you felt the same."
There was silence for a moment, and then, her reply popped up. "Well, duh," she said, followed by an emoji of a playful wink. "I've been waiting for you to say it. It's about time!"
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. It felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my chest. And in that moment, I realized that this—whatever this was—was real. And it wasn't scary anymore.
We didn't need anything more than that. It wasn't the grand gesture I had imagined, but it was everything I had hoped for. And with that, we crossed into something new—something beautiful.
But, as life often does, it had other plans.
When the university applications came around, I found out that Trishabelle was going to a different school. Her parents had pushed her toward it, worried that if we went to the same university, we might be a distraction to each other. It was hard to take. We'd talked about being together at the same school, even applied to the same ones, but in the end, she chose differently. It wasn't her fault; it was a decision made for her, one that she couldn't avoid.
We tried to make it work, but distance—physical and emotional—began to take its toll. And before long, we broke up, just as we were about to embark on our college journey. The quiet heartbreak of it was overwhelming. We never had a chance to truly be together the way I had imagined.
And now, even as I write this, years later, I still think about her. I think about how she made me feel like I could be more than I ever believed. I think about how, despite all the beautiful girls I've met since then, none of them have ever come close to making me feel the way she did.
She's still the one in my heart, the one I haven't been able to move on from. And maybe, just maybe, one day, our paths will cross again. And when they do, I'll have the courage to tell her everything I couldn't back then—that I never stopped loving her.
Because no matter how much time has passed, she's the one I see when I close my eyes.