When I first started attending the computer class regularly, I didn't expect anything out of the ordinary. The room was just as I remembered from the trial class — filled with rows of black plastic chairs, dull grey monitors humming with faint life, and the sharp, clinical smell of electronics hanging faintly in the air. It wasn't exciting, not exactly, but it was something new. Something different.
Most of the students were around my age, a mixed bunch of boys and girls scattered across the lab, eyes fixed on screens, fingers dancing over keyboards. Some were chatty, others completely absorbed in what they were doing. The instructor, Mr. Ramesh, had a habit of explaining everything twice — once in English and once in Hindi — which made things feel slower, but I didn't mind. I wasn't in a rush.
At first, nothing remarkable happened. I went in, took my assigned seat near the back right corner, logged into the system, and quietly followed along. The lessons were simple — how to navigate Windows, basic shortcuts, typing practice, and slowly, an introduction to MS Office. I already knew a little from school, but this was more focused, more structured. I felt like I was finally filling in the blanks.
A few weeks passed like this. Quiet learning, casual nods to classmates, routine.
Then, one afternoon, something shifted.
It started subtly. Just a feeling — that faint sense of being watched. You know, that eerie prickling at the back of your neck, like someone's gaze is pressing down on you. At first, I brushed it off. It was a shared space, after all. People looked around, especially during breaks or when they got bored. No big deal.
But the feeling persisted.
I began to notice it more frequently, especially during moments when the class was busy doing assignments or when Mr. Ramesh would step out to take a call. I'd feel it — like eyes locked on me from somewhere in the room. I'd glance up quickly, expecting to catch someone staring, but all I'd see were heads bent low over screens.
It made me uneasy.
Then, one day, everything changed.
It was a cloudy Thursday. The kind of day when the light filtering through the windows was dull and soft, and the sound of distant thunder seemed to deepen the silence in the room. We were working on a spreadsheet exercise — nothing too difficult, just organizing data into rows and columns.
I leaned back in my chair for a moment to stretch when I felt that sensation again — stronger this time. A silent gravity tugging at me.
I turned my head slowly, pretending to yawn, and my eyes scanned the room.
That's when I saw him.
He was sitting three rows diagonally to my left. A boy — maybe my age or a little older. I recognized him vaguely, though we'd never spoken. He had messy hair, a faded hoodie, and a quiet presence. And he was staring directly at me.
Not just a glance. Not a casual look.
A deliberate, fixed gaze.
Our eyes locked.
He didn't look away.
It was just a moment — maybe three seconds — but it felt like time stopped. I could feel my heart beat louder in my ears.
Then he blinked, looked down at his keyboard, and resumed typing like nothing had happened.
I didn't know what to make of it.
Was he just curious? Had I done something odd? Did I have something on my face?
For the rest of the class, I found it hard to concentrate. I kept glancing sideways, trying not to be obvious, but he didn't look at me again. It was like the moment had never happened.
But I knew what I saw.
And it wouldn't be the last time.