The first time I saw him, I didn't know I would remember every little detail—the way sunlight caught his hair, turning it gold in strands, or the faint smell of rain that seemed to follow him even when the sky was clear. He didn't notice me, of course—he never did—but I noticed him.
I noticed the way he laughed, small and uneven, like he was afraid someone would hear it and think it strange. I noticed the way he held a book too close to his chest, like it was the only thing that made sense of the world. And I noticed how, in a crowded corridor, he seemed to move in his own quiet rhythm, untouchable, unreachable.
Days passed, and I found myself tracing him with my eyes across classrooms and hallways, my heart quietly learning his pace. I didn't know his name. I didn't know anything about him. Yet my lips itched to speak it, to call him out, to see if he would turn.
Then one rainy afternoon, the inevitable happened. I was struggling with an umbrella that refused to stay open and a stack of books that threatened to topple at any moment. The corridors were nearly empty, the usual chatter replaced by the steady patter of rain against windows. He was there, standing by the lockers, staring at some notice pinned to the wall, utterly unaware of the chaos around him.
I stumbled. My books scattered across the wet floor. He looked up, startled, and reached out, brushing his hand against mine as I bent to gather the mess.
"You okay?" he asked. His voice was gentle, curious, as if he had paused mid-thought just to check on me.
I nodded, my own voice catching in my throat. I wanted to say so much more, but only one awkward phrase came out:
"I… I like your—"
I froze, the words dying on my lips, swallowed by the strange urgency of the moment. He blinked, smiled faintly, and went back to whatever had distracted him.
That was the moment my lips learned to whisper his name, even before I knew it. I didn't know his name, but somehow it had already found a place on my tongue.
And somehow, I knew that the world would never feel quite the same again.