The thing about sitting behind someone you like is that you learn their habits before you ever learn their voice.
Amara always arrives early. By the time I slip into the classroom, slightly out of breath, she's already seated bag neatly tucked under her desk, notebook open, pen resting between her fingers like she's ready for anything the day throws at her. Sometimes she hums quietly, not enough for anyone else to hear. I only notice because I'm always watching.
Two rows ahead. Close enough to matter. Far enough to hurt.
Today, the sun pours through the window beside her, painting her hair in soft gold. She squints, annoyed, then laughs to herself as she shifts her chair just a little. That laugh does something to me. It always does. It settles somewhere deep in my chest and stays there, warm and dangerous.
"Good morning," the teacher says, clapping his hands.
I echo the greeting with everyone else, but my eyes drift back to her almost immediately. I tell myself not to. I tell myself it's stupid. But my heart doesn't listen very well.
She turns a page in her notebook. I catch a glimpse of her handwriting—rounded, careful, beautiful. I imagine my letters written in that same book, my words resting beside hers like they belong together.
They don't.
During class, my pen moves on its own. I'm supposed to be taking notes, but instead, I write her name in the corner of the page. Once. Twice. Then I stop, heart racing, and scratch it out like I've committed a crime.
What if she sees?
What if she knows?
She doesn't. She never does.
When the teacher asks a question, Amara raises her hand. Her voice is soft but confident, and the room listens. I do too—more than I should. There's something about the way she speaks, like she believes her words deserve to exist. I wish I felt that way about mine.
The bell rings for break, and chaos follows. Chairs scrape, friends call out to one another, laughter fills the room. Amara stands, and for a moment, she turns around.
This time, our eyes meet.
It's brief. Barely a second. But it feels like a pause in the world.
She looks away first, distracted by her friends, and just like that, it's over. But my heart doesn't stop racing. It never does after moments like that.
I reach into my bag and pull out the notebook. Just for a second. Just to feel it there.
Dear Amara,
You don't know me. But I know the way the sun loves you.
I close the notebook quickly, cheeks burning. I'm scared of my own honesty. Scared that one day, my feelings will slip out the way that glance almost did.
She's just the girl two rows ahead.
But somehow, she already feels like the center of my world.
And I don't know what to do with that.