M I K a ⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

THE FIRST DAY of school was always the same kind of noise—shoes squeaking on the floor, chairs scraping against waxed floor, everyone trying to sound like they weren’t nervous.

You weren’t any different. Just another student settling into a room that still smelled like new notebooks and cheap paint.

You found your seat near the back, beside the window, where the wind occasionally slipped through the cracked glass.

You liked it there. It was quiet. Nobody really bothered with the seats at the far side except for people who wanted to be left alone.

Which, most days, was you.

It wasn't even time yet when someone slid into the chair next to you.

He had that kind of easy confidence people either liked or envied—Elliot, the guy who always seemed to have an answer ready, always surrounded by friends.

You’d seen him around before, but this was the first time he’d ever sat beside you.

He didn’t say anything at first, just glanced at your desk, then back at you with a small, polite smile.

“You play Terraria?” he asked suddenly, noticing the little pixel sticker on your notebook.

You blinked, a bit thrown off. “Yeah… sometimes. Why?”

He shrugged, resting his chin on his palm. “Our mutual friend told me you were into it. Didn’t think anyone else here actually played that.

That was how it started—small talk that didn’t really feel small.

You were used to conversations that ended as quickly as they began, but this one kept going.

Elliot didn’t talk over you or force things; he just listened, asked things, shared little pieces of his own.

Before you knew it, the teacher had already left and the class was now moving seats, but neither of you seemed to notice.

When the teacher finally entered, Elliot leaned back, eyes still on you for a second longer than necessary before turning toward the front.

He didn’t smile this time, but his lips curved slightly, like he was holding one back.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe it was just curiosity. But still, you caught yourself glancing at him every now and then, wondering if he’d look back.

He did. Once or twice. Just enough to make your chest feel unsteady.

The days slipped by in a blur of chalk dust, crumpled worksheets, and the occasional echo of laughter bouncing off classroom walls.

You’d gotten used to Elliot’s quiet presence somewhere behind you—never too far, never too close. He always had that calm, unreadable face, like nothing ever really got to him.

But then there were those moments. The ones that made your heart trip a little.

Like when he’d randomly throw a Jojo pose after seeing you were alone and you just.. groaning or maybe laughing or when he’d jokingly ask you for five pesos during lunch, only to hand it right back like it was some inside joke only he found funny.

It wasn’t love—at least, not yet. You kept telling yourself that.

You just thought he was... interesting.

Then came that one day. The air was thick with the smell of chalk and sweat, fans buzzing like tired insects.

You and your friend were sitting near the back, chatting quietly while everyone else was settling down for the next subject.

“He kinda looks like he has curly hair, no?” your friend said, tilting her head toward Elliot, who was fixing his ID strap.

You squinted. “Yeah, a bit… maybe he uses wax or something—”

Before you could finish, Elliot walked up. No hesitation, no warning. He looked straight at you.

“Wanna check?” he said simply, lowering his head just enough.

You froze. Your brain short-circuited.

He actually meant it.

You hesitated, but your hand moved before your thoughts could stop it.

His hair was soft—not too curly, not straight either, just messy in that I didn’t even try but it works kind of way.

You pulled back immediately, mumbling something you couldn’t even remember.

He smiled. Just a little.

And walked off like nothing happened.

Your friend stared at you like you’d just witnessed a miracle.

You didn’t know what to say—only that your heartbeat hadn’t slowed down since.

By the second month of the school year, Elliot had somehow become part of your everyday rhythm—like the noise of the classroom fan or the chatter in the corridor.

You didn’t even notice it at first, but he had a way of sneaking into your attention without meaning to.

Sometimes, he’d lean back on his chair, hands behind his head, and mimic some ridiculous anime stance—usually a JoJo pose.

You’d always try to hide your laugh, covering your mouth with your hand.

But you knew he noticed. He always looked your way right after, like he was checking if you found it funny.

Then there were the money jokes.

Out of nowhere, he’d walk up to your desk during lunch break, half-smiling.

“Can I borrow twenty pesos?”

You’d blink. “For what?”

He’d shrug. “I’m broke.”

And when you actually reached for your wallet, he’d grin and shake his head.

“Just kidding,” he’d say, sliding a folded twenty back into your hand.

You didn’t get it. You didn’t understand why he did things like that—small, random, meaningless things that somehow stayed in your head all day.

And then there was that afternoon after class. The sky was orange, the windows casting stripes of sunlight across the room as everyone packed their bags—trying to cut classes since your last subject teacher didn't attend.

You were half-asleep at your desk when Elliot walked over, balancing his bag on one shoulder.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You looked up.

He gestured toward the hallway. “You going home?”

“Yeah, in a bit,” you answered, trying to sound normal.

He nodded, then smirked a little—like he wanted to say something but stopped himself. “Alright. Don’t get lost, ah?”

You raised an eyebrow. “In school?”

He shrugged, walking off. “You’d be surprised.”

You laughed quietly once he was gone, tucking your notebook into your bag.

You didn’t realize it yet, but that was the moment you started smiling at the thought of him.

You weren’t sure when it started feeling different. Maybe it had been there all along—those quiet, unnoticed moments piling up until they suddenly meant something.

Elliot had always been that kind of person. Loud when he wanted to be, quiet when it mattered.

The truth was, it had become a habit—the way your eyes searched for him the moment you stepped into the classroom.

One day, there was a power outage. The fans stopped spinning, and the room quickly turned into a sauna of restless students waving their notebooks in the air.

You were slumped on your desk, too tired to care, when a shadow fell across you.

Elliot stood there, holding out his hand fan—the small kind you swung manually to make wind.

“Keep this,” he said.

You blinked up at him. “Huh?”

“’Til the electricity’s back. You look like you’re melting.”

You didn’t even get the chance to respond before he was already turning back to his seat.

It wasn’t dramatic or teasing—just… casual. Like it was normal to notice small things about you.

That night, you caught yourself thinking about it—about how he didn’t even make a big deal out of it, how he didn’t look for a “thank you.” It was stupid, but it made something in your chest feel warm.

Then came dance practice for the upcoming program. You were partners, because of course you were. You didn't even know why he chose you. You were absent at the time.

It was awkward at first, his hand hovering on your waist, yours resting just on his shoulders.

You could feel the tremor in your fingertips every time he led you into a turn. But Elliot—he made it feel easy, somehow.

At one point, the ring on your middle finger caught the light, and he paused mid-step.

“That ring’s nice,” he said suddenly.

You blinked, caught off guard. “This? It’s nothing special.”

He smiled a little, eyes flicking down to your hand as he adjusted his grip. “Does it hurt when I hold your hand like this?”

You shook your head. “It’s fine.”

“Good.” His tone softened, just for that one word.

You didn’t even realize your heart was racing until he looked away again.

After practice, your classmates teased you relentlessly. You brushed it off, laughing, but every time someone mentioned his name, you felt that familiar warmth creeping up your neck.

You kept telling yourself it was nothing—that you were overthinking, that he was just kind to everyone.

But deep down, you knew.

Because when you sat alone during lunch the next day, staring blankly at your food, he came over and sat next to you without saying a word.

He didn’t talk, didn’t joke—just stayed there. And when your friend finally arrived and sat beside you, he walked away to go bother his own group, acting like nothing happened.

And somehow, that small, quiet gesture meant more than any of his jokes ever could.

You tried to tell yourself he was just being nice. But the truth was starting to sink in—slow, steady, impossible to ignore.

You liked him.

Of course, the teasing didn’t stop. If anything, it got worse.

You tried not to show how much it bothered you, laughing it off when your classmates nudged each other and grinned whenever Elliot walked into the room.

It wasn’t even always direct teasing—sometimes it was just a look, or a whisper that trailed off the moment you turned your head.

And every time, your chest tightened. Not because it was embarrassing, but because you didn’t know why it made your heart skip like that.

You kept telling yourself it wasn’t like that. He liked someone else, didn’t he?

Everyone said so. Everyone except you knew who they are was, and you didn’t want to ask. You didn’t want to hear it.

Still, every day, you found yourself noticing the little things again.

Like how he always found a way to talk to you about the most random stuff—Terraria updates, memes you’d already seen, the science project you barely started.

Or how he’d walk up to you mid-conversation with your friends and just stand there, acting like he belonged in the moment without saying a word.

Sometimes, he’d fan you again when practice got too hot. Sometimes, he’d just smile when your eyes met across the room.

And sometimes, he’d do something so small it shouldn’t have mattered—but it did.

One afternoon, you were sitting alone on the bleachers at the quadrangle, waiting for your classmates to arrive for the dance practice.

“Hey,” a voice said.

You turned, and there he was, standing there with that stupid smile with his bag slung over his shoulder—like he’d been standing there for a while.

His hair was a little messy, sticking up at the sides. He looked almost shy, which was weird, because Elliot was never shy.

“You look like you’re thinking about something deep,” he said.

“I’m not.” You looked back at nothing, though your heart was starting to beat a little faster.

“Sure.” He walked over and sat beside you anyway. “You always say that when you are.”

You wanted to reply, to say something clever or teasing, but your throat felt dry. So you just shrugged.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know… everyone keeps saying I should stop hanging out with you so much.”

That made you freeze. “What? Why?”

He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “They said it looks like something else.”

You tried to smile. “Like what?”

He looked at you for a long second, then laughed softly. “Never mind.”

But that single moment—that pause—stayed with you long after practice ended.

That night, lying in bed, you replayed it in your head again and again.

The way he looked at you, the small laugh he gave after, the way your pulse jumped just hearing him say “hanging out with you so much.”

It wasn’t fair.

Because he wasn’t supposed to act like that. You weren’t supposed to want him to.

The next morning, you told yourself to keep your distance.

You’d stop talking to him so much, stop catching yourself smiling at every stupid thing he did. You’d stop making it obvious.

But that resolve lasted maybe half a day.

During lunch, he plopped down next to you like always, waving a snack in your face. “You ate?”

You shook your head. “Not yet.”

“Good,” he said, pushing the snack toward you. “Then take this.”

You frowned. “You bought it for yourself.”

“I can buy another one.”

“Elliot—”

“Just take it.”

He was smiling again, that same easy, stupid smile that made it impossible to say no.

When you finally accepted it, he leaned back with a satisfied look, like he’d just accomplished something great.

Then, a few moments later, when you offered him your food in return, he shook his head.

“You need it more,” he said. “You look tired.”

You wanted to argue, to say you weren’t tired, but your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to. “You always notice things like that.”

He just shrugged, looking away. “Someone has to.”

That made your chest ache.

Because maybe he was just being kind. Maybe he treated everyone like this. Maybe that was just Elliot. But part of you wanted—no needed—to believe it meant something else.

The teasing kept going. One time, during practice, your classmates started whispering again when the two of you took your positions.

“Careful,” one of them joked, loud enough for you to hear. “They might start waltzing for real.”

Elliot just grinned, not missing a beat. “You’re just jealous we look better.”

You felt your face heat up as laughter filled the room, but when you glanced at him, he wasn’t laughing—he was watching you, quietly, with something soft in his eyes.

After practice, when everyone had gone, he stayed behind to help clean up. You didn’t even realize he was still there until he spoke.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

He was holding the same hand fan he gave to you. Did he get a spare?

“Still have this?”

You blinked, confused for a moment before realizing what he meant. “Yeah. It’s… in my bag.”

He smiled faintly. “Good. Thought you threw it away.”

“Why would I?” you asked.

He hesitated, then said, “I dunno. Just… you looked like the kind of person who’d forget small stuff.”

“I don’t forget things,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he said—and his tone was so gentle, it made your heart stutter.

You didn’t know what else to say. The silence stretched between you, heavy and almost fragile.

And when he finally turned to leave, you found yourself wishing he’d stayed just a bit longer.

Later that night, you stared at the food wrapper you’d kept and at the stupid hand fan you still carried around.

Each thing was small. Insignificant. Meaningless to anyone else.

But to you, they were proof. Proof that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t imagining it—that even if he liked someone else, there was something real in the way he treated you.

You hugged your pillow close and buried your face in it, whispering into the quiet of your room.

“I think I really like him.”

And this time, you didn’t try to deny it.

You didn’t expect the ache to start that fast—you thought it'll be a normal day and It was.

Half the students scrolling through their phones, others laughing over some inside joke that didn’t matter.

You were sitting alone at your desk, chin resting on your hand, when Elliot dropped into the seat beside you with that same grin that always made something in your chest stir.

“Bored?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said, half a sigh. “You?”

He held up his phone. “Trying to show my bro something earlier, but he just left to buy food from the cafeteria. You can see it instead.”

You tilted your head. “What is it?”

He smiled wider, almost teasing. “You’ll see.”

You leaned a little closer as he unlocked his screen—and that was the moment your stomach twisted.

It was a photo.

Not of scenery. Not of a game. Not of something random.

It was a person.

The picture wasn’t even that clear, like he’d taken it fast, but you could see how careful he’d framed it—how the lighting hit just right, how the smile on that person’s face looked… warm.

Familiar. Almost like the way he smiled when he was teasing you.

He stared at the photo for a moment before locking the screen again, almost shyly. “They’re… cool, right?”

You blinked. “That’s… your crush?”

He nodded, a small laugh escaping him. “Yeah. I mean, I didn’t really plan to tell anyone, but it’s kinda obvious already.”

Something in your chest tensed. You tried to smile, tried to sound normal. “Everyone said you liked someone. Guess it’s true.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s not just a crush, though. They’re… different.”

You didn’t mean to ask, but the words slipped out before you could stop them. “How so?”

He glanced down at his hands, fiddling with his phone like he needed to keep them busy.

“They’re the type who doesn’t even try to stand out, but somehow everyone just—” he paused, thinking. “—notices them anyway. They’re funny, even when they don’t mean to be. They’re quiet, but they talk when it counts.”

You nodded slowly, biting back the words burning on your tongue. The way he said they.

The softness in his tone. The small smile tugging at his lips like he was seeing something beautiful that wasn’t in front of him. It made your throat feel tight.

He wasn’t even saying anything special—but the way he said it hurt.

You forced a small laugh. “Wow. Sounds like you’re in deep.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s weird, though. I’m not usually like this.”

“Like what?”

He looked at you, and for a moment, the whole room felt quieter.

“All… sentimental. I keep noticing things that remind me of them. Like, if something funny happens, I wanna tell them first. Or when I see something cool, I wonder if they’d like it.”

You smiled—small, shaky. “That’s how you know you really like someone.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice softer now. “Guess I do.”

You nodded, pretending to look interested in your notebook just to keep from showing how much it hurt. He didn’t notice—or maybe he did and chose to ignore it.

You wanted to ask who it was. You wanted to know. But you also didn’t. Because what if it was someone you saw every day? Someone you sat near in class? Someone you couldn’t compete with?

You didn’t want to know, but you still wanted him to say it.

He leaned back, sighing with a smile that looked too peaceful for how loud your thoughts had become. “Sometimes I think I shouldn’t like them. Like it’s not gonna go anywhere. But I can’t stop.”

You laughed under your breath, more bitter than you meant to. “Yeah, feelings are stupid like that.”

He grinned. “Exactly.”

Silence filled the space between you after that. He started scrolling again, looking distracted, while you sat there with your pulse too loud in your ears.

You wanted to say something—anything—to change the subject. But your voice wouldn’t work.

Instead, you watched him laugh at something on his screen, his eyes lighting up the same way they did when he was talking about the person in that photo.

You wanted to be happy for him. You did. But the truth settled in heavy and cold: you weren’t. You were jealous of someone you didn’t even know.

The last teacher again—didn't show up, expected but you were glad, when the time reached 3:00pm on your phone, you stood up too fast.

“I’ll go ahead,” you said quickly.

He blinked. “Oh—yeah, okay. See you tomorrow.”

You smiled weakly. “Yeah. See you.”

You walked out before your voice could crack.

The hallway felt too bright, your steps too loud. You went straight to the gate, stepped outside, and stared blankly at the tricycles, the people walking around, the jeeps. Everything.

For a second, you thought about how he cared for you when you were alone. You thought about the fan he lent you, the way his hand felt when you practiced that slow waltz together.

It was all so small. So stupid.

And yet your heart refused to let go of them.

When you got home that night, you lay on your bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to remember exactly how he looked when he talked about that person.

He was smiling—softly, like it came from somewhere deep.

You turned on your side, hugging your pillow.

“Of course,” you whispered to yourself. “Of course he’d look like that for someone else.”

You blinked hard, but your eyes still burned.

You told yourself it was fine. You’d keep being his friend. You’d keep smiling when he teased you, keep listening when he talked about the things he loved.

Because even if he never looked at you the way he looked at them… you couldn’t bring yourself to hate the way he made you feel.

You’d rather have this ache than nothing at all.

And as the night wore on, you stared at your phone screen—his chat still open, your fingers hovering over the keyboard—then locked it and set it down.

You didn’t send anything.

Not even a goodnight to him back. You couldn't, you needed to break away to have your heart hurt less.

You woke up to the sound of your alarm.

It was another day, another day of seeing him. A bad day for you, normal to the others—but the thought of seeing him made your head ache.

Nothing serious at first—just that dull, buzzing ache behind your eyes that made everything sound a little too loud.

You figured it was because of lack of sleep or stress. So you didn’t say anything.

You just smiled, nodded when the teacher called your name, and tried not to rest your head on the desk.

By lunch, your body was starting to give up. Your skin felt too warm, your throat heavy, your legs a little shaky whenever you stood. You told yourself you’d make it to dismissal. You always did.

The room was loud again—classmates laughing, some playing Mobile Legends at the back, others gossiping about who liked who.

And in the middle of all that noise, Elliot sat in his usual spot, earbuds in, foot tapping to some beat only he could hear.

He noticed you before you even realized he was looking.

“Hey,” he said, pulling one earbud out. “You good? You look kinda pale.”

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, forcing a smile.

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure? You don’t look fine.”

“Maybe just tired.”

“Or maybe you’re sick.”

You tried to laugh it off, but your voice came out small. “Don’t sound so dramatic.”

“I’m serious,” he said, leaning forward a little. “You’re sweating. Did you even eat this morning?”

You wanted to roll your eyes, to tease him back like you always did, but your head throbbed when you moved. So instead, you just sighed. “I’ll be okay. It’s probably nothing.”

He didn’t look convinced. In fact, he kept staring at you like he was debating whether to call the nurse himself. After a moment, he stood up.

“Where are you going?” you asked.

“Buying something,” he said. “Don’t move.”

You frowned, but he was already walking out.

A few minutes later, he came back holding a small plastic bag. He dropped it onto your desk—inside were a bottle of water and a pack of biscuits.

“What’s this?”

He sat down next to you again, crossing his arms. “Eat.”

“Elliot—”

“No arguments. Just do it.”

You couldn’t help the quiet laugh that slipped out, though your chest ached with something heavier than amusement. “You’re bossy when you want to be.”

He smirked. “Only when someone’s being stubborn.”

You opened the biscuits, took a small bite just to make him stop staring. The water felt good against your throat, and you hadn’t realized how thirsty you were until now.

“Better?” he asked.

“A little.”

He nodded, satisfied. Then he leaned back, hands behind his head like he wasn’t the reason your heart was doing cartwheels.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The classroom buzzed around you—voices, laughter, chairs scraping—but all you could focus on was the sound of his breathing beside you.

Then your friend came in, waving a hand in front of your face. “Hey, you look dead. You okay?”

Before you could answer, Elliot spoke for you. “They’ve got a fever.”

You shot him a look. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. I can tell.”

Your friend laughed. “Aww, so concerned.”

Elliot didn’t even look embarrassed. “Someone has to be. They’d probably pass out if left alone.”

That made your heart skip again. You wanted to say something—anything—but your words tangled somewhere between your throat and your chest.

The bell rang soon after, and everyone started packing up. You reached for your bag, but Elliot stopped you.

“I’ll carry that,” he said.

“What? No. It’s fine.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

You looked down. He was right.

“Fine,” you muttered, letting him take it.

He slung your bag over his shoulder like it weighed nothing, walking beside you as you headed down the hallway.

You could feel your pulse in your temples, the dull ache of fever making everything blur slightly—but somehow, his presence made it easier to breathe.

When you stumbled a little, he immediately steadied you by the arm. “Careful.”

“I’m fine,” you said again, even though you weren’t.

He gave you that look—the one that said he didn’t believe a word you said—but he didn’t argue this time.

Outside, the breeze felt nice. Cool. You could finally think again. But then he turned to you, face serious.

“Call someone to pick you up,” he said.

You shook your head. “I’ll be fine. I can take the jeep.”

“No way.” His tone left no room for argument. “You’re burning up.”

“I said—”

“Just call them, please.”

You froze at that word—please. It wasn’t something he said often. You hesitated, then sighed and took your phone out, messaging home.

“Fine,” you said quietly. “They’re on their way.”

He nodded, then pulled something out of his pocket—a plastic bracelet, the kind your classmate had been given by their suitor.

“Here,” he said, handing it to you.

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because you look miserable. It’ll make you less sad to look at, I dunno.”

You laughed weakly. “That’s such a weird reason.”

“I’m a weird guy.”

You smiled. “Yeah, you are.”

You didn’t ask where he got it, but you had a feeling he’d been saving it for something else.

He looked at you for a second longer, then sighed. “You should rest when you get home, okay?”

“I know.”

“Drink medicine. Eat something.”

You nodded, your chest tightening again at how gentle he sounded.

“Don’t just say ‘okay’ and forget,” he said, eyes narrowing.

“I won’t,” you murmured.

Silence fell again.

You could hear the distant noise of students running and laughing, the hum of traffic outside the gate. Everything felt so normal—and yet, standing there with him, it didn’t.

Because this was the kind of moment you knew you’d replay later, when you were alone. The kind you’d think about when your fever broke and your head cleared.

He cared. He always did. But the ache in your chest reminded you he didn’t love you. Not like that.

Still, when your ride finally arrived and you turned to leave, he waved and said, “Text me when you get home, okay?”

You froze. “Why?”

“So I know you didn’t faint on the way.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Fine.”

“Good,” he said, grinning. “Now go.”

You walked away slowly, the glow stick still clutched in your hand, the warmth of his voice echoing in your ears.

That night, fever or not, you couldn’t sleep. You lay in bed, your phone on your chest, screen glowing faintly in the dark. His message was still there, short and simple:

Elliot: You home yet?

Elliot: Rest well, alright?

You typed and erased your reply twice before finally sending,

You: Yeah. Thanks again.

Three dots appeared for a moment—then stopped.

You waited, staring at the screen, but he didn’t type anything else.

You turned off your phone and curled up under your blanket, pressing the glow stick close to your chest. It was dim now, fading, but still there.

Just like him—always a little too close, always too kind, always making it impossible to stop hoping.

You closed your eyes.

And for the first time, you admitted it to yourself fully.

You were falling.

And it hurt so much to know he wasn’t falling with you.

It was time for your performance—the cha-cha part of your classroom danced first, they were not in sync but it was still good especially with the short time all of you practiced.

Then it was your turn. The slow waltz group.

You thought that all of you were in sync but of course, you digress. At least you were able to perform.

You see Elliot staring at you with this weird look as he spun you—he smiled when he caught you staring at his face.

You glanced down, you feel your face heating up. You can't mess up this performance. You're already failing to reach with honors.

As you all finish—you can vaguely see him panting, smiling at everyone who took pictures.

Everyone was still a little breathless from the performance—some laughing, others replaying every missed step in their heads.

You could still feel the heat of Elliot’s hand on yours, the weight of his steady grip even though the music had long stopped.

He was beside you now, leaning on one of the chairs at the side of the room, hair slightly messy from all the spins.

His white uniform shirt was untucked at one side, sleeves rolled up, and he looked... human, in a way he rarely did when he was trying to impress people. Just tired and happy.

“You didn’t mess up at all,” he said, turning to you with that easy grin. “Told you we’d pull it off.”

You laughed under your breath, brushing off invisible dust from your uniform. “I almost stepped on your foot twice.”

“Almost,” he repeated, voice warm with amusement. “Keyword: almost. I’d still call that a win.”

The noise in the classroom was fading as pairs drifted out, some to grab snacks, others to sit on the bleachers and scroll through Facebook.

The hum of conversation softened until it was just the two of you, leaning against opposite desks.

It would’ve been normal—just another day, another post-event lull—if your heart didn’t still hurt a little.

If his smile didn’t still twist something inside you that you’d been trying to untangle for weeks.

Maybe that’s why you said it.

“Hey,” you began, keeping your tone light, teasing. “Why’d you even pick me, anyway? For the dance.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“I mean,” you shrugged, fiddling with the ribbon on your uniform, “you could’ve picked anyone. You’ve got, like, a ton of friends who actually dance. We weren’t even close.”

You gave a short laugh, trying to make it sound like you didn’t care. “You sure you didn’t just lose a bet or something?”

Elliot looked confused for a second, then shook his head. “What? No. Of course not.”

You waited for the punchline, but it didn’t come. He wasn’t teasing. His expression softened as he leaned back against the desk, looking at you like he was turning the question over in his head.

“I wouldn’t have danced with anyone else,” he said simply.

It was the kind of statement that didn’t sound rehearsed—just something that slipped out because he meant it.

Your heart tripped over itself.

You tried to laugh it off, searching for the right tone. “That’s... pretty dramatic, Elliot. You sound like one of those movie guys.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe. But I mean it. You didn’t make me feel like I had to act perfect, you know? With others, I get all stiff and weird. With you, it’s just… easy.”

Easy.

That word shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

You smiled anyway, eyes lowering to your hands. “Guess I should take that as a compliment, huh?”

He nodded, still smiling. “You should.”

For a moment, the world was quiet. The kind of quiet that isn’t awkward—just comfortable enough to make you forget where you are.

Then it happened—small, almost unnoticeable, but sharp enough to catch.

Someone passed by both of you, laughing—familiar voice, familiar walk. You didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

You saw the way Elliot’s eyes flickered upward, just for a second, and that soft light in them changed.

He didn’t even realize it, the tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips, the brief pause in his breath. He looked back at you almost immediately, like nothing had happened.

Like that second hadn’t just cut straight through the fragile calm you were clinging to.

“Hey,” he said, still half-smiling, “you okay? You look kinda spaced out.”

You blinked once, steadying your voice. “Just tired. Guess the performance drained more energy than I thought.”

He nodded, understanding. “Yeah, same. You should rest. Don’t get sick again, okay? I’d have to fan you all over again.”

That made you laugh—a small, honest laugh, because even now, he still had that effect on you. Even when your chest felt too tight.

“Right,” you said softly. “Wouldn’t want that.”

He grinned. “Good. I’ll walk you to our classroom before I go grab water.”

You wanted to say no—that you could walk yourself, that he didn’t have to—but you didn’t. You just nodded, because it was easier to pretend for a little longer.

As you walked side by side through the school, you caught your reflection in one of the windows of the classroom. Two figures—one smiling, one holding back everything they couldn’t say.

You thought about the dance again—about how his hand fit over yours, how steady his gaze was under the lights.

You thought about the words he said earlier: I wouldn’t have danced with anyone else.

And even though he probably didn’t mean it the way you wished he did, you let yourself believe it, just for a little while longer because it was easier.

The week after the performance felt like a blur, because you wanted to forget about it. You told yourself it was because of projects, group works, and teachers suddenly remembering deadlines existed.

That it had nothing to do with him—with the memory of his words still playing like a song you couldn’t turn off.

You were quieter than usual, though no one really pointed it out. The classroom buzzed with the same chatter, the same jokes, the same chaos that filled every break time.

Elliot still sat in his usual spot a few seats away, sometimes joining in, sometimes catching your eye when the teacher cracked a joke.

You smiled when you had to. Laughed when it felt right.

But there was a slight delay now—a beat too slow, a pause too long.

He noticed.

It started small. The first time, he called your name from across the room, holding up a packet of biscuits. “Hey, you want one?”

You looked up, forcing a smile. “I’m good, thanks.”

He frowned slightly, like he didn’t quite believe you, but shrugged and tossed one onto your desk anyway. “In case you change your mind.”

You didn’t eat it. You just stared at the little orange wrapper sitting by your notebook, a tiny reminder of the warmth you were trying to step away from.

You told yourself you were just tired. That pulling back was the right thing—that whatever it was you were feeling, it wasn’t worth breaking over something you were never promised.

He liked someone else. Everyone knew it. Even if you didn’t know who, it didn’t matter.

You saw it in the way he smiled when that someone walked by, in the way his tone shifted—gentle, careful, like the world had softened for a moment.

You couldn’t compete with that.

You didn’t even want to.

But your chest still tightened every time.

Lunch break came and went, and you stayed inside while most went out to the canteen.

You told your friend you’d just finish something. Elliot stayed behind too, scrolling through his phone near the back.

The air between you was quiet, but not cold—just a soft, uneasy quiet that neither of you knew how to break.

You could feel his gaze flicker toward you once or twice. You kept your eyes on your notebook, pretending to write.

Then, his voice: “You okay?”

You froze for half a second, pen hovering midair. “Yeah. Why?”

He shrugged, pocketing his phone. “You’ve just been... different lately.”

You let out a short, nervous laugh. “Different how?”

“I dunno,” he said honestly. “You used to talk to me more. Now it’s like... you’re here, but not really.”

You forced a smile, even though your stomach twisted. “Maybe I’m just tired. School stuff.”

He didn’t look convinced. He tilted his head a bit, studying you with that same calm sincerity that always made it hard to lie. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

It was quiet again. You heard someone running down the hallway outside, the echo of laughter fading into another classroom. Inside, it was just the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the rustle of papers when you pretended to focus on something else.

Elliot stood there a few seconds longer before nodding, a small, unsure smile tugging at his lips. “Okay. But if something’s wrong, you can tell me, you know?”

You met his eyes then—and that was the mistake.

Because his gaze was steady, kind, and too familiar. The same look he gave you before the slow dance started, when your hands were shaking and he said, You got this.

It made something in your chest ache all over again.

“Yeah,” you said softly, breaking eye contact first. “I know.”

He nodded again, like that was enough, and went back to his seat.

You didn’t write anything else in your notebook after that.

The next few days blurred the same way. You saw him laughing with his friends, the same loud, bright energy that made people gravitate toward him.

You caught yourself watching from your desk more than once, then immediately looking away when he noticed.

He still talked to you, of course—asking about your day, offering snacks, joking around like he always did. But you kept your answers shorter. Smiles smaller.

You hated yourself a little for it.

But it was easier this way.

Because every time he turned his head toward that other person—every time you caught that fleeting look in his eyes—it reminded you of your place.

You weren’t the crush. You were the friend he danced with. The one he said made things “easy.”

And easy wasn’t the same as special.

One afternoon, when class ended early, everyone gathered to take photos.

You stood off to the side at first, watching the chaos—people crowding together, laughing, posing with peace signs and playful shoves.

Elliot spotted you and waved you over. “Hey! Get in the photo!”

You hesitated. “Nah, it’s fine—”

“Come on,” he insisted, walking over and grabbing your wrist gently. “You’re part of the group too.”

Your throat tightened. You smiled because that’s what he expected—because that was easier than explaining why being near him hurt now.

The camera flashed. Everyone cheered.

And for a brief second, you let yourself lean into the noise, into the warmth of the moment.

Afterward, when you looked at the photo, you noticed something—the way he was standing slightly closer to you than anyone else, his smile wide and genuine.

You wanted to believe that meant something. You almost did.

But then you saw it again—that same someone in the background, smiling too.

And your heart understood what your mind refused to say out loud.

So you smiled, tucked the photo into your bag, and walked out with the rest, pretending everything was fine.

By February, the air was heavy with heat and cheap perfume.

Paper hearts lined the hallways, red ribbons drooping under the weight of the afternoon sun, and every classroom buzzed with that kind of nervous excitement you could almost taste.

Valentine’s Day.

You told yourself it was just another day—that the fluttering laughter, the whispers, the pink envelopes tucked under books didn’t mean anything.

But when you saw the small pile of gifts gathering on Elliot’s desk, the lie started to wobble.

He didn’t even look particularly smug about it. Just that same sheepish grin, scratching his head as his friends teased him.

You pretended not to care. You smiled when your classmates passed chocolates around and even joined in the teasing. But every laugh felt rehearsed, every word practiced.

Because in your bag sat a small, crumpled paper bag—one you’d been guarding since last night like it contained your heart.

Inside was a box of Ferrero chocolates, a folded note you’d rewritten five times, and a small keychain shaped like a sword—a nod to your Terraria conversations. You didn’t even know what you planned to say when you gave it to him.

Maybe nothing. Maybe just “Happy Valentine’s.”

You’d tell yourself that was enough.

That maybe, if the timing was right, if fate decided to be kind for once, he’d understand the rest without you saying it.

The day crawled forward, every tick of the clock digging into your chest.

You kept glancing at the paper bag under your desk, your heartbeat thudding against the floor.

By lunch break, you couldn’t take it anymore.

Elliot had gone out with his friends, and you decided—now. Before you lost your nerve, before your thoughts tangled themselves into reasons not to.

You stepped out into the hallway, gripping the paper bag until your knuckles whitened. Your breath felt uneven, like you’d just run.

You caught glimpses of couples exchanging roses, groups laughing with candy hearts in their hands. The air was filled with noise and color—but all you could focus on was finding him.

You finally spotted him near the garden area, half-hidden by the crowd. He was laughing, his back turned. You took a step forward—ready, scared, but ready.

Then he turned.

And everything inside you froze.

He was holding someone’s hand.

Not casually—not the kind of hold you give a friend or a joke. It was soft, secure, gentle.

The kind that said this means something.

The world didn’t shatter dramatically; it just... quieted. Like every sound dulled at once. You saw the small smile on his face—that same smile he’d given you before the slow dance, the one you thought was yours.

And you saw it now, reflected for someone else.

You didn’t even realize how tight you were gripping the paper bag until the edge crumpled under your palm.

Your breath hitched. You forced yourself to blink—once, twice—because if you didn’t, it would all spill out.

He hadn’t seen you yet. You could still walk away. You should walk away.

Your feet felt like they weighed a thousand pounds, but somehow you turned around, slipping back into the stream of students.

The path back blurred. Voices overlapped—laughter, music, the scratch of chairs—but none of it reached you.

You ended up on the rooftop stairs, the quietest place you could think of. The air smelled faintly of chalk dust and dried paint.

You sat down on the cool concrete step, clutching the paper bag in your lap.

Your chest hurt—not in the dramatic, movie kind of way. Just a dull, steady ache that made it hard to breathe normally.

You pulled out the keychain first. The little metal sword gleamed weakly under the light, catching every shimmer like it was mocking you for believing this would mean something.

You laughed—quietly, bitterly—at yourself.

“Of course,” you whispered. “Of course it’d end like this.”

You rested your head against the wall, closing your eyes.

For weeks, you’d convinced yourself that what you had with him was special—that the small things, the snacks, the teasing, the way he looked at you, meant something.

But it didn’t. Or maybe it did, just not in the way you hoped.

You thought of the way he said, You make it easy.

The way he smiled when he saw his crush walk by.

The way you pretended not to notice, not to care.

Maybe this was what you deserved for staying quiet for too long—for falling for someone who never asked you to.

You opened the folded note, the one you’d written with shaking hands last night:

“Thanks for always making me feel seen. I hope this doesn’t make things weird, but I really like you, Elliot. Not just as a friend.”

You stared at the words for a long time before folding it back, neatly, like sealing a wound.

Then, with one last deep breath, you tucked the note and the gift back into the paper bag, pressed it flat against your chest, and whispered—barely audible—

“Happy Valentine’s, Elliot.”

It wasn’t for him anymore.

It was for the version of you that believed he might look back.

When you came back to class, he was already there—sitting at his desk, laughing softly at something one of his friends said.

His crush—well lover—was gone. The moment had passed.

He saw you walk in and smiled, raising a hand in greeting like nothing had changed.

And for him, maybe nothing had.

You smiled back. It felt smaller this time, but genuine enough to pass.

You sat down, staring at the half-open window, at the sunlight spilling through the curtains.

Outside, you could still hear the faint chaos of Valentine’s—music, confessions, laughter. But here, you let it all fade out.

You’d say nothing. You’d keep the paper bag hidden in your bag until you got home, maybe throw it in a drawer and pretend you forgot about it.

Because you already knew the truth now. Some stories end quietly.

Not with heartbreak, not with closure—just a moment where you realize it’s time to stop hoping.