The classroom feels quieter than usual, even though everyone is settling in. It's one of those mornings where the sunlight streams through the windows just right, painting golden stripes across the desks, and yet, I can't focus. Not really.
Amara isn't in her usual seat.
I blink, staring at the empty chair by the window. My chest tightens in a way I didn't expect. She's late probably a minute or two, maybe more. Maybe she's… sick? No, that doesn't feel right. My mind immediately jumps to a thousand "what ifs" that I know are ridiculous but impossible to stop.
The teacher begins taking attendance, and I can't bring myself to look forward. Each name he calls feels like a countdown, a reminder that one person missing changes the rhythm of everything.
"Amara?"
No answer.
"Absent today," the teacher mutters, marking the roll. I sit back in my chair, trying not to make a sound, trying not to let the sudden hollow feeling in my chest show. That chair… that little empty space beside me… it feels like a part of the room has disappeared.
I force myself to open my notebook. I should be writing notes. I should be paying attention. But my pen hovers over a blank page, refusing to obey.
Dear Amara,
Your seat is empty, and somehow it's louder than the rest of the classroom combined.
I bite my lip. My hand shakes slightly. It feels ridiculous this is just school. She'll probably come tomorrow, and everything will be back to normal. But normal doesn't exist when my thoughts are always tangled around her.
The minutes drag. Every laugh from another group of students feels exaggerated, every footstep down the hall echoes like a warning that she isn't here. And then, the door opens.
She walks in, a little out of breath, hair messy from running, and clutching a crumpled piece of paper. I catch a glimpse of her cheeks, flushed pink, and the way she scans the classroom, as if looking for me.
My heart leaps.
Amara makes her way down the aisle, and my pulse accelerates with each step she takes toward her usual seat. She pauses when she reaches it, looking around, like she's uncertain if the space beside her is taken like she's testing the air, testing whether I'm paying attention.
I give her the smallest nod, barely visible, but enough for her to exhale. She smiles tiny, almost apologetic and slides into the chair, setting her bag beside her. The world seems to settle, if only slightly.
I can't stop staring.
"You look… tired," I manage, my voice lower than intended.
She glances at me, surprised, then shrugs lightly. "I had to help my little sister with homework. She didn't want to do it, and… well, I didn't want her crying this morning."
I blink. I didn't know she had a little sister. Somehow, that makes her feel even more… human. Real. Close. And yet, untouchable.
"That's… nice of you," I say, knowing that even that small statement feels like a confession I didn't mean to make.
She smiles faintly, and the way her eyes soften makes my chest ache. I want to reach out, to say more, to tell her exactly how much I notice these little things, but words fail me. They always do.
Class begins, but I'm distracted. Every movement she makes the way she flips her notebook open, the subtle tapping of her pen, the tilt of her head when she's thinking feels magnified. I wonder if she feels my eyes on her. I wonder if she even notices the way my hand clutches my pen a little too tightly when she's near.
Halfway through the lesson, a boy from another row leans over and whispers something to her. I can't hear the words, but I see her laugh softly, a sound that cuts through me like it always does.
Jealousy. I hate that word, but it's the only one that fits. I don't even know this boy. Maybe he's just being polite. Maybe he's asking a question. But still… my chest feels tight. My fingers curl around my notebook, crumpling the edge of the page without thinking.
I try to focus on the lesson, forcing my eyes down at my notebook. I scribble equations I barely understand, just to distract myself. But all I see in my mind is her smile. Her hair. That one brief laugh that wasn't meant for me.
When the bell finally rings for break, my friends call me over, but I can't move immediately. I watch her stand, adjust her bag, and walk toward the hallway.
And then it happens.
She drops something.
A small piece of paper flutters to the floor. Without thinking, I dive forward and pick it up. My fingers brush against hers as I hand it to her. That touch light, accidental sends a jolt through me. My heart feels like it might pound its way out of my chest.
"Thanks," she whispers, her voice soft, but there's something in it that makes the world feel lighter.
"You… you're welcome," I manage, voice shaking slightly. Too loud. Too soft. I don't know.
Her eyes linger on mine for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. I swear I see the tiniest flicker of something curiosity? recognition? Maybe just amusement. Maybe she feels it too the way my chest hurts for reasons I can't explain.
Then she's gone, swallowed by the hallway and the noise of students rushing past. I sit back down, heart still hammering. My notebook lies open in front of me, blank, as if it's waiting for my confession.
I pick up my pen and write. Slowly, carefully, like the words themselves are fragile and can break if handled too roughly.
Dear Amara,*
Today your seat was empty, and for a moment I felt the weight of the world. And then you came back, and it felt like it was just the two of us again. I don't know how to tell you any of this without sounding like a fool. So I'll write it instead, hoping these words might someday make sense to you.
I stop and stare at the words, breathing shallow. My chest aches. My heart aches. And yet… it feels alive. So alive.
Some people call it love at first sight. Some people call it infatuation. Some people call it a crush.
I don't know what this is yet. But I know one thing:
Every time she's near, every time she smiles, every time she leaves a little gap in the world for me… I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
And I can't will not let her seat ever be empty again.