When We Met, I Lost Myself

Chapter 3 – Small Conversations

The days that followed felt strangely different.

Before, I would slip into class quietly, hide behind my books, and go through lessons like a ghost—present, but unnoticed. But now, sitting in the front row beside him, silence wasn’t as simple anymore. Silence had weight, and he seemed determined to fill it.

It began with the smallest things.

“Hey,” he whispered during English, leaning just close enough so the teacher wouldn’t hear. “Do you have an extra pen? Mine just died.”

I sighed but handed him one, pretending not to notice how his fingers brushed mine when he took it.

The next day, during History, he nudged my elbow and pointed at the doodle I had scribbled in the corner of my notebook.

“Is that supposed to be a cat?” he asked, fighting a grin.

“It is a cat,” I said defensively, covering it with my hand.

He chuckled. “Looks more like a potato with ears.”

I glared at him, but the corners of my lips betrayed me, twitching upward.

And then, during Math, while everyone else was groaning over equations, he leaned closer and muttered, “If I fail this, promise you’ll visit me when I’m held back in Grade 8?”

I laughed louder than I should have, drawing a look from the teacher. My cheeks burned, but he just sat there with that smug grin, as if he’d won some secret game.

Slowly, these little exchanges became part of my routine. Breaks turned into shared jokes about classmates, whispers during lessons, and even quiet moments when we didn’t talk at all but somehow felt less like strangers.

One afternoon, as the room buzzed with chatter before the next teacher arrived, he turned to me suddenly.

“What’s your favorite subject?” he asked.

I blinked at him. “Why?”

“Just curious.” He shrugged. “I’m trying to figure out what kind of person you are.”

I hesitated. “English, I guess.”

“Ah,” he said thoughtfully, tapping his pen against his notebook. “So you’re the type who loves stories. The dreamer.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And you?”

“PE,” he said without hesitation.

I burst out laughing. “Figures.”

He smiled, that boyish smile I was starting to memorize. “What can I say? Running around is easier than writing essays.”

It wasn’t much. Just small conversations that would mean nothing to anyone else. But to me, they were everything. Every word, every laugh, every glance—it was all proof that we were no longer strangers sharing the same desk.

We were becoming something else.

Friends, maybe.

Or at least, the beginning of it.