The first time I saw her, I didn't fall in love.
Not right away.
It wasn't fireworks. It wasn't violins. It was quieter than that — like the wind slipping through an open classroom window, brushing across my cheek. Like the moon peeking through the clouds, unnoticed by most, but not by me.
She was in Grade 10. I was just a shy little thing in Grade 7, clutching my books too tightly, wondering if I'd ever be brave enough to speak loudly in class.
But she — she was sunlight in a human form. Or maybe moonlight, because there was something distant about her too. Like she was never fully here, even when she stood right in front of you.
I remember her laugh before I remember her voice. It echoed down the corridor once during lunch break. I didn't even know what was so funny — I just knew that sound made my heart feel warmer than it should've.
She was standing with her friends. One hand running through her loose hair, the other holding her phone. Her smile was tilted — like she knew a secret the world would never understand. I think I started writing about her that very night.
I didn't know it was love. Not then. I just thought she was... different. Like she had her own gravity, and without meaning to, I was already pulled in.
I'd see her between classes — sometimes passing by, other times standing near the canteen, earphones in. She always looked a little too cool for the school uniform. Like she belonged to a place bigger than any of us.
I never dared speak to her. Not really. Just a few polite greetings, some awkward smiles. But my diary pages began to fill with her name. Her eyes. Her laugh.
Looking back, maybe I didn't fall in love all at once — but piece by piece. Like leaves dropping into a river. Quiet. Gentle. Constant.
One day, she looked at me. Really looked. And I swear, the world paused for just a second. Her eyes met mine — and maybe she didn't feel it. But I did.
And that's when I knew.
I had fallen.
But I didn't know what to call it yet. I just knew that from that day on, she was in everything. In the books I read. In the music I played. In the moon I stared at night after night.
And I thought, maybe if I stayed close enough — long enough — she'd look at me like that again.
I didn't know this would become the saddest kind of love — the one that blooms without ever being held.
But I loved her. Even then.
And it was only the beginning.
I started noticing the little things. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was focused. The bracelets she wore — always silver, always slightly too big. The way she laughed with her whole body, leaning back like joy lived inside her bones.
I watched from the quiet edges of hallways. Not in a creepy way — but in that hopelessly admiring way, where every part of you aches to be noticed but is too scared to step forward.
I memorized her timetable without meaning to. I always "happened" to pass by her class. Sometimes, just to catch a glimpse. Other times, hoping — desperately — for a smile.
I remember once, she dropped her pen in the corridor. I picked it up and gave it back to her. Our fingers brushed. She said, "Thanks," and smiled.
I kept that moment like a treasure.
That night, I wrote it in my diary ten times.
> "Her smile is the kind you don't recover from."
She probably forgot about it minutes later. But me? I replayed it a thousand times in my head.
Even in my dreams, she was there — like a song I didn't know the lyrics to but still kept humming.
The worst part? She had no idea.
And the best part? She was still real, and she existed in the same world as me.
For a 13-year-old girl in love for the first time… that was more than enough.