Chapter 3: The Fragile Bridge
We finally spoke. It was during a group project. By fate—or perhaps by me constantly volunteering for every task—we were in the same group.
"You're in my history class, right?" she asked, looking up from her laptop.
"Yeah, in the back," I managed to stutter, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears.
That was the start of the most beautiful and painful months of my life. I was finally in her world, but only as an outsider allowed to visit. I was the funny, helpful friend. I was the person she called when her laptop crashed, or when she needed someone to walk her home at midnight.
She was kind. She was genuine. She laughed at my jokes, and she shared her fears about the future. I memorized every detail—the way she narrowed her eyes when she was thinking, the way she hummed when she was happy. I was falling deeper, losing myself in the scent of her perfume, and the way she said my name.
But in her eyes, I saw only friendship. I saw the way she looked at me—with trust, with comfort, but never with the fire I was burning with.