I sit on the edge of the swing, legs dangling above the dusty ground, and listen. My friends are talking, whispering as though they're sharing the universe's greatest secret. "He looked at me today! And I think he likes me!" one of them squeals, eyes sparkling.
I blink, startled. Likes you? The word seems foreign, strange. "L-Likes you? But… how do you know?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Oh come on! You don't know anything, do you?" another laughs, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "When a boy stares at you like that, and you get that fluttery feeling in your chest—that's him liking you!"
Fluttery feeling. My stomach twists. I've never felt that. Not really. I watch them talk, hang on every word, imagining their hearts skipping beats like mine does when I see the boys across the playground—but my flutter is different. Curiosity, not longing.
"Do you… ever… like someone?" I whisper to myself more than anyone else.
They laugh at that. "Of course she hasn't," my friend teases, nudging me. "She's too innocent for this. Doesn't even know what it feels like."
I flush, embarrassed, but a spark lights inside me. What is it like?
The days pass, and I begin noticing things. Small things. The way a boy's hand brushes against his notebook. The way he laughs, loud and carefree, in class. The way he tilts his head when he's thinking. Each detail is a tiny mystery I want to understand.
One afternoon, I sit beneath the old oak tree, sketchbook on my lap. I watch him—the boy who always sits near the basketball court. There's something about the way he moves, confident yet unaware. I can't explain why my heart flutters. It's not love—at least, I don't think so—but it's something. A curiosity, a pull I can't resist observing.
"Hey, you're staring again," my friend teases, snapping me back to reality.
"I… I'm not," I say quickly, hiding my sketchbook.
She grins knowingly. "Sure, you're not. Everyone notices him. He's… cute."
Cute. The word makes me shiver unexpectedly. I turn my gaze back to him. Cute doesn't even begin to describe it. But I shake my head. No, he's not my type. I know my type—at least, I think I do—and he doesn't quite fit.
Still, the flutter lingers. I catch myself daydreaming, imagining scenarios I've only just begun to understand. Holding hands. Walking together after school. Laughing over inside jokes. My chest tightens with excitement, but also with something else. Fear? Confusion? I don't know.
Evenings are the worst. I lie in bed, sketchbook beside me, replaying conversations, imagining their whispers about crushes, about love. Sometimes, I even hear my own heart beat in my ears, louder than usual, as though it's trying to tell me something I can't yet understand.
One day, while walking home, I overhear two older girls talking near the marketplace. "He's so hot! And did you see the way he kissed her hand the other day? Ugh, it was perfect!"
I freeze. Kiss… hand? I had never thought about boys touching girls. Not really. My cheeks burn. The innocence inside me wrestles with curiosity. Part of me is shocked. Part of me… wants to understand.
By the end of the week, I realize something. I'm no longer just an observer. I'm learning, slowly, the rules of this strange, electric world. Boys. Crushes. Attraction. Desire. All of it. And I know one thing for certain: when the right one comes along, I'll recognize him. I'll know.
But until then… I'll watch. I'll learn. And maybe, just maybe, I'll allow my heart to flutter a little more each day.