The next morning, the first thing I saw wasn't the mirror, like it usually is. Usually, I don't even pick up my phone, letting the world wake up around me while I slowly drag myself into reality.
But this time was different. My hand reached for my phone almost instinctively, my fingers trembling slightly as I unlocked it. My heart was already thumping.
I expected him to have messaged. Not because I had planned it, not because I was desperate — but because the night had left a trace, a tiny thread connecting me to him that I couldn't ignore.
And then, there it was. His message, sitting there waiting, as if he had read my mind even before I thought it:
"Good morning! Coming to school, right? Don't look half-slept. Okay?, I'm heading to take a bath now, bye."
I blinked at it, chest tightening, a smile threatening to break through before I even replied. He didn't just message — he had already known how I'd be feeling, anticipating me, nudging me gently into the day.
For a moment, I just stared at the screen, heart hammering, fingers frozen. Then I quickly typed back, trying to sound casual even though my mind was screaming: he noticed me. He cares. And he's thinking about me first thing in the morning.
When I was getting dressed, I found myself doing little things I never usually did. A touch more perfume, brushing my teeth a little longer than usual, trying to keep my hair as neat as I could — secretly hoping he would notice, forgetting the part that he already liked a girl.
By the time I reached school, reality hit. Somehow, in person, we acted as if nothing had changed. We ignored each other like strangers passing in the hallway, and my stomach twisted at the awkwardness.
We did exchange a few words about our projects, but even that felt forced. He kept busy with his friends, shuffling papers, and the principal kept calling him away.
And yet… every time our eyes accidentally met, a small spark reminded me of last night. That invisible thread, that tiny unspoken connection, was still there — fragile, electric, and completely unspoken.
Later, it was time for the race trials. I spotted him sitting on the ground casually, legs stretched out, leaning back on his hands like he owned the world.
"If you come first, I'll also participate in the race," he said, smirking.
Ahh, the classic challenge — hitting my female ego right where it hurts. I couldn't resist.
I took a deep breath, tensed my muscles, and put every bit of energy I had into that race. My legs pumped, my heart thundered, and I pushed myself faster than I thought possible.
And… I won.
The moment I crossed the finish line, I turned just in time to see him begrudgingly getting up. He had been forced to participate, and I couldn't help but burst into laughter at the sight. His giant body lumbering down the track, arms flailing slightly, trying to keep up — it was honestly hilarious.
"Guess you need more workouts than me," I teased, still laughing.
He shot me a mock glare, wiping sweat off his forehead. "Don't think this proves anything! Next time, I'll crush you."
I grinned, feeling that little spark again — the playful tension, the shared laughter, the way he could make ordinary moments feel… electric.
Even in competition, even in teasing, it was clear: there was something between us that wasn't just friendship, but neither of us was ready to name it yet.
Then it was time for the run-through. Me, Shubh, and Vayu were standing in the area, leading the younger kids, making sure everyone knew what they were doing. Somehow, the topic of Akaay's crush came up.
I couldn't resist. My curiosity was bubbling over. "Shubh, do you know anything? You're his best friend," I asked, trying to sound casual but feeling my heart dissolve from the inside.
"Of course I do," he said, smirking.
"Who is she?" I asked, barely able to keep my voice steady.
"Uh… I won't tell," he replied, grinning like he had the world's best secret.
"Oh, come on! At least tell me her class. I know she's in our school for sure," I pressed, trying to keep my voice light, but feeling my chest tighten.
"How can you say that?" he teased.
"My guts," I said stubbornly, even though my stomach was twisting.
"In any class between 2nd and 12th," he said jokingly, and I couldn't help but hit him — hard — for being so annoyingly vague.
But deep down, I already knew. I wouldn't hear her name. My mind whispered the truth before my ears could even catch it: she wasn't me.
Later, when Nayan arrived, the world suddenly felt a little brighter and a little more dangerous at the same time. Akaay and I froze for a moment, realizing we were… hiding.
Not from a teacher, not from anyone serious — from her, like two kids caught red-handed. And in that instant, I think we were both thinking the same thing: please don't notice, please don't notice.
But then, almost on cue, we both bolted — in different directions. My heart raced, still buzzing from the laughter of the class, from the brush of his presence, from the ridiculousness of it all.
He disappeared down one side of the playground, I went the other, and for a moment, it felt like the world had stretched between us. Not enough to erase the tension, not enough to make it normal — just enough to leave my chest fluttering, my thoughts tangled in his laugh, his glance, the warmth of that near touch.
Even as I tried to focus on the kids, on my tasks, on anything else, I couldn't shake the feeling that he was just a few steps away. That invisible thread we'd built — the playful teasing, the shared laughter, the little unspoken sparks — was still there, quietly tugging at me.
And somehow, splitting apart didn't feel like separation. It felt like the story was still alive, waiting for the next moment we'd collide again.