Over the next few weeks, I found myself noticing him everywhere: at the cafeteria, walking past the library, even in my group projects where he didn't belong. It was as if the universe had conspired to place him in my line of sight, a constant reminder of something I couldn't quite name. I'd catch his eye, hope for a smile, and then spiral into thoughts about what it could mean. Did he notice me too? Was there a hidden message in the way his gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary?
Soon, my imagination became its own world. I started constructing conversations that hadn't happened, gestures that hadn't been made, and moments that existed only in my mind. A casual laugh in the hallway became a secret shared between us; a glance across the room transformed into a silent confession. Everything about him seemed perfect—his hair, his voice, his laugh—but that perfection was something I created, polished and exaggerated until it gleamed. It was a puzzle of daydreams, a story my heart was writing for me, chapter by chapter, without his knowledge.
My friends warned me that maybe I was overthinking, that I was building castles in the air with no foundation. But the rush of excitement whenever he was near drowned out all reason. Even the smallest details became monumental: the way he tapped his pen against the desk, the rhythm of his footsteps echoing in the corridor, the curve of his smile when he spoke to someone else. Each fragment felt like a clue, a piece of evidence in the case I was building against reality.