The first thing that popped into my head was:"Wait… was I really married? Am I in the past? Am I dreaming? Am I… in the book? What the actual heck?!"
But I had no proof of any of it. So, I did what any seven-year-old would do—I pretended everything was normal and went to school.
The whole day, my brain kept replaying that chaotic "future life"—kids, husband, chores, endless responsibilities. It felt too real, like someone had sneakily shown me a trailer of a movie I didn't remember acting in. Meanwhile, my notebook stayed blank, the chalk squeaked on the board, and all the lessons flew over my head like airplanes I couldn't catch.
"Kriti! What are you thinking? Share with the class!" My teacher's sharp voice yanked me back to reality.
"Oh! Uh… f—" I stuttered, panic sprinting through my veins.
"Did you just curse?" she asked, raising an eyebrow so high it could've reached the ceiling.
"No! I mean… fun! Fun, teacher! Your class is… fun!" I blurted, my cheeks blazing like I'd just swallowed lava. A few kids giggled. I wanted the ground to open up and eat me whole.
Finally, the day ended, and I climbed into my minivan. Relief should've washed over me—but no. My world tilted when I saw him.
A boy.
Not from my class, at least I didn't think so. But something about him made my heart tumble into a somersault. His presence was magnetic, like the air shifted just because he stepped into it. My chest fluttered like a trapped butterfly, wings slamming against my ribs.
"Kriti, you're seven. You can't fall for anyone," I whispered to myself, gripping the seat. But my brain snapped back, teasing: "Fool, this isn't love. This is just… fascination. A crush. Tiny. Harmless."
Except it wasn't harmless. Because that's how it began—my very first crush.
The rest of the evening blurred. My "future life" visions dimmed into the background—husband, kids, chores—all gone. What replaced them was him: the sharp lines of his features, his fair skin, the glimmer in his eyes, and the way his laugh sounded like it carried sunlight inside it. My tiny heart didn't understand love, but it knew this was something special.
The next day, my eyes searched the classroom, hungry to spot him again. Every head turned felt like a false alarm. My heart dipped lower and lower until I almost convinced myself I had imagined him. But then, on the bus—there he was.
He slid into the seat beside me, flashing a smile that felt like the world paused.
"Hey! What's your name? Which class are you in? I'm Abhi," he said, his voice casual, warm, like we were already old friends.
My palms sweat. My mouth went dry. My stomach knotted itself into a gymnast routine. Somehow, I mumbled my name, my voice tiny and shaky, while my brain screamed a thousand things at once.
Turns out, he was in 4th grade—one year older than me. That one small fact felt like the universe had handed me a secret gift.
From then on, I lived in a floating bubble. Every word he spoke lingered. Every laugh etched itself in my mind. I memorized the way his hair always fell just right, the tilt of his head when he listened, the mischievous sparkle when he joked.
We became friends—simple, easy, light. And for a while, it was enough. But as the months rolled into years, things began to shift.
By Grade 4, he had his new circle of friends—louder, cooler, funnier. He started drifting, and I found myself watching him from the sidelines, my little heart aching in ways I didn't even know an eight-year-old heart could. I would catch myself burning with this strange, grown-up jealousy whenever I saw him surrounded by girls from his class—pretty girls, tall girls, the kind who looked polished even in school uniforms.
I know they look prettier than me, I would mutter to myself, but can't you see? I'm the one who's ready to hand you my whole heart. Not them. Me.
But he never noticed.
I tried. God, I tried. For years, I tried everything. Sitting near him, making excuses to talk, laughing too loud at his jokes, even pretending not to care just to get his attention. But he never gave me a second glance. His world spun around his classmates, his friends, his little admirers—and I was just orbiting on the edges.
By Grade 5, the ache grew heavier.
One day, the bus was packed, every seat taken except the one beside me. I shifted slightly, my heart skipping with the wild hope that maybe—just maybe—he'd sit with me again.
But he didn't.
He gave me this half-smile, sharp and almost mocking, then nudged his younger brother into the seat beside me. Abhi leaned away, his back angled toward me like I wasn't even there.
My chest crumpled. The air turned heavy. My tiny world, built around him, cracked a little that day.
And still—I couldn't stop liking him.