I never thought a normal Tuesday could be catastrophic, but apparently, the universe disagreed. I was walking down the hallway, headphones in, music blasting, mentally rehearsing my speech for history class. And then it happened.
I tripped over my own feet. Classic Tasha.
Of course, it wasn't just a casual stumble. I flew forward, textbooks wobbling in my arms like unbalanced towers, and landed—right into him.
Ethan.
He was standing by the lockers, casually leaning against them like he owned the hallway, he was probably waiting for someone, but the moment I collided with him, his dark eyes snapped up, catching mine. Calm, composed, magnetic in a way that made your chest tighten without warning. He didn't flinch, didn't push me away—he just steadied me, one hand on my arm, the other barely twitching. And I couldn't look away.
"Whoa," he said, voice low, even, not annoyed but… amused. My textbooks nearly toppled. "Careful there."
"Yeah… uh… totally," I mumbled, cheeks heating. My brain had officially shut down. "Totally fine," I tried again, hoping he wouldn't notice my trembling hands or the way my thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind.
His smile was subtle but devastating—the kind that makes your stomach flip and your entire body forget how to act normally. "You sure?"
"I—I am," I said, wishing I could disappear into the lockers. Or maybe into the floor. "Really."
"You're... Something," he said finally, letting go of my arm. His tone wasn't mocking; it wasn't teasing. It was observational, like he was cataloging my clumsy disaster of a personality and finding it… interesting.
I wanted to run. And yet, I didn't. Because somewhere deep down, I wanted him to notice me. Just a little.
I bent to pick up my pencil case, which had rolled under the lockers, and heard a quiet chuckle. He was still there. Watching. That same unreadable expression on his face.
"You okay?" he asked, more softly this time. Concerned? Maybe. Or maybe that was my imagination.
"Yes," I said quickly, stuffing the pencil case into my bag. "Totally."
"Good," he said. And just like that, he walked away, blending effortlessly with the stream of students flowing down the hallway. He was probably not waiting for anyone afterall.
I wanted to collapse right there. Or scream. Or throw my bag at the wall. Mostly, I just stood frozen, heart hammering, staring at the space where he had been.
By the time I reached my classroom, my hands were shaking, my hair was a mess, and my mind refused to stop replaying that smile. I sank into my chair, hoping nobody would notice my red face or the fact that my fingers kept fidgeting with my bag strap.
History class was merciless. I tried to focus on the notes on the board, tried to form coherent sentences in my head, but every time I blinked, there he was. In my mind, leaning casually against a locker, eyes dark, smile teasing. It was unfair. Absolutely unfair.
By lunchtime, I was walking with my friends, half-listening to their chatter about exams and gossip, fully lost in thoughts of Ethan. And then it happened again—he appeared in the cafeteria line. Of course he did. As if he had a sixth sense for my presence.
He glanced around, saw me, and for a fraction of a second, our eyes met. My stomach lurched. I tried to look away, but my legs had other plans. Somehow, I ended up closer to him than I intended.
"Hey," he said casually, tilting his head, that same calm, measured tone.
"Hi," I said, voice cracking slightly. Smooth, Tasha, smooth.
He raised an eyebrow, amused, maybe noticing my embarrassment, maybe not. "You're everywhere today," he said.
"I—uh… school is big?" I offered weakly.
He smirked just slightly and walked away before I could reply. And somehow, my heart sank and soared at the same time.
The rest of the day was a blur. Every hallway, every class, every corner seemed to hold the possibility of seeing him again. And it wasn't just the awkwardness—it was the pull. That quiet, unexplainable pull that made me notice every small detail: the way he brushed his hair from his forehead, the slight tilt of his shoulder when he laughed, the way he somehow looked like he could read thoughts if he wanted to.
By the time the final bell rang, I was exhausted—not from classes, not from exams, but from the mental gymnastics of trying to act normal around him. I wanted to run, hide, laugh, cry, all at once.