That day, the English class felt different. The cool air that lingered after the morning rain carried the faint scent of wet earth. On the blackboard, neat white letters formed the words:
"Dear Diary…"
Mr. Armand moved slowly between the desks, his steps calm, his eyes reflecting the faint sheen of dust resting on the wooden surfaces.
"Writing a diary," he said softly, "is the most honest way to know yourself. Don't worry about perfect grammar, what matters is sincerity. Honesty gives your writing breath."
His gaze swept across the room, and somehow, when it landed briefly on Sinta, the world seemed to stop beating. She lowered her head quickly, her cheeks warm, her fingers gripping the pen so tightly her notebook trembled.
Nina, her seatmate, nudged her with a grin.
"Hey, what's wrong with you? You're blushing like crazy," she whispered, half-laughing.
"It's nothing," Sinta replied quickly, pretending to focus on her notes.
At the front, Mr. Armand wrote something on the board. His white shirt was slightly damp at the shoulders, perhaps from the rain.
"Now," he continued, "write one page as if it's today's diary entry. Be honest. Write from the heart."
The class fell into silence. Only the gentle patter of rain outside and the soft scratching of pens filled the room.
Sinta stared at the blank page before her. She wanted to write about the lesson, but her thoughts wandered, to the way he said the word honest, to the steadiness of his voice, low yet full of warmth.
She wrote aimlessly at first, her sentences skipping between thoughts and feelings, as if her heart refused to be still.
When the bell rang, students packed up noisily. Sinta, as usual, moved slower, pretending to arrange her books, waiting for the room to empty.
Mr. Armand sat at his desk, writing in his notebook, his face calm, focused.
Just as Sinta was about to leave, his voice called out.
"Sinta."
She turned at once, her heart jumping.
"You still like to write, don't you?" he asked, smiling gently.
"Um… yes, sir. I do."
"Keep at it. The descriptive essay you wrote last week was beautiful. You write with honesty."
Sinta couldn't reply. She only nodded, her lips trembling with a shy smile. Yet inside, his words rippled through her chest like ink spreading in water, slowly, beautifully, and impossible to erase.
That evening, in her small room, Sinta opened her blue diary, its corners worn from years of use.
Today, he said my writing was beautiful. I don't know why those simple words made me want to keep writing. I want him to read all my stories. Is this what it means to like someone?
She closed the diary and held it to her chest. Outside, the golden light of sunset spilled softly across her walls. Her heart felt light, full of a hope she couldn't quite name.
In the days that followed, Sinta began to wait for English class with a quiet thrill. She recognized the sound of Mr. Armand's footsteps in the hallway, each one a melody she didn't want to miss.
When he wrote on the board, time seemed to slow. She watched the steady movement of his hand, the graceful way the letters formed, each stroke felt like a prayer.
In her blue diary, she wrote in secret: about his smile, his voice, the smell of ink and paper that reminded her of him.
And between those words, something began to grow, something sweet, and dangerous.
One day, the rain poured hard. Only half the students came to class.
Mr. Armand entered carrying a small black umbrella, his shoulders still damp. "I hope none of you got soaked," he said kindly, his eyes reflecting the classroom light.
Sinta smiled faintly, but inside, her chest trembled with something she couldn't name, a blend of awe and fear.
"Today," he said, "we'll write about someone you admire. But remember, don't mention their name. Write through your feelings."
Sinta bit her lip. Her pen trembled in her hand. She knew exactly whom she wanted to write about, but doing so meant opening a door she wasn't ready to face.
At last, she began:
He smiles without excess. His eyes are calm, his voice warm. Every word he speaks makes my day feel more alive. He inspires me to write, to be brave enough to be myself, even when no one else sees me.
When she finished, she paused, her chest tight but strangely relieved.
As Mr. Armand walked between the rows, collecting papers, Sinta lowered her gaze and handed her work to him with trembling fingers.
"Thank you," he said softly.
That smile, oh, that smile, made the entire world feel still again.
The rain hadn't stopped by the time school ended. Sinta sat in the corridor, watching the wet courtyard shimmer in the dim light. From a distance, she saw Mr. Armand leave the teachers' lounge, books in one hand, his umbrella in the other.
He walked with quiet grace through the fading rain.
She knew she should go home. But her feet refused to move. She only wanted to keep that image in her mind, the sight of him beneath the gray sky, calm and steady.
Why does this feel so beautiful? she wondered. Why do I wish time would stop here forever?
That night, in her silent room, she wrote again.
I want to see him again and again. His gaze makes me forget the world. I'm afraid, but I can't stop. This feeling is like an addiction. I want to know what makes him smile… what makes him sad.
She closed the diary and stared at the ceiling. In the faint light, she could almost see his face, gentle, patient, near.
She knew this wasn't just admiration. It was something that had quietly taken root between her words, something born from silence and honesty.
The next morning, Sinta arrived earlier than usual. The corridors were still empty, morning light filtering through the trees. She sat at her desk, opened her diary, and began to write quickly before the bell rang.
Why am I waiting for him like this? I want to write so this feeling doesn't fade. About him, about me, about all the little moments he'll never even notice.
When the bell sounded, she closed the diary and slipped it carefully into her bag.
Moments later, the voice she'd been waiting for echoed through the room.
"Good morning, class," said Mr. Armand, his tone clear, full of quiet energy.
That day's lesson was about dreams and the future.
On a small piece of paper, Sinta wrote:
I want to be a writer, so that one day he'll read my story, a story about a girl who found her voice because of her teacher.
Mr. Armand walked by, stopping briefly at her desk. He glanced at her paper and smiled.
"That's a beautiful dream," he said softly. "Don't stop writing."
The words stayed with her like a gentle charm. She knew they weren't just advice. They were a small acknowledgment, that he saw her, truly saw her.
A few days later, another rainy afternoon came.
Sinta lingered again in the corridor, waiting as usual.
Mr. Armand passed by, holding a stack of student papers.
"Sir," she called softly.
He turned, smiling. "Oh, Sinta. You're still here?"
She shook her head. "Those are our assignments, right?"
"Yes," he said, glancing at the stack. "I like reading them. Through writing, I can see who my students really are."
Sinta swallowed. "Have you… read mine yet?"
He nodded. "I have."
"Was it good?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
Mr. Armand smiled again. "Very good, Sinta. You have something special, a way of writing that makes others feel. Keep being honest in your words. That's the key."
Sinta lowered her gaze. Her eyes stung, not from sadness, but from something too tender to name.
"Thank you, sir…"
He simply smiled once more and walked away.
Sinta stood in the corridor, watching his back fade into the dim, rainy light.
She knew her feelings were wrong, and yet, somehow, pure. She knew the distance between them could never be crossed. But in that very distance, she found her strength to write. To Sinta, Mr. Armand was not just her English teacher.
He was the first sentence that made the world worth writing about. And between the rain, the ink, and the silence, that love grew quietly, like a prayer that could never be spoken aloud.