MY BEATING HEART

On a cold night, I sat in the garden close to my hostel, the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze barely registering in my mind. I clutched my chest, gasping for air as though the pain inside was suffocating me. My cries broke the stillness, soft, sighed screams that carried the weight of heartbreak and despair. Tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision as dizziness set in, my body swaying like a fragile branch caught in a storm. Nausea rolled in waves, but I was too lost in my grief to care. I begged the pain to stop, my whispers rising into desperate pleas. "Please, let it end." But no matter how much I begged, it lingered, deep and unyielding. For the first time, I truly understood the raw, unrelenting ache that comes with betrayal. The word itself felt bitter now, its edges cutting into me with every thought of him. And yet, I hated myself more. I knew that if he ever came back, if he called me, even whispered my name, I would run to him without a second thought. That knowledge gnawed at my sanity, leaving me both heartbroken and ashamed. It all started on a summer evening during my freshman year. The air was warm, a soft golden light spilling over the campus as the sun dipped low in the sky. It wasn’t too hot or too cold—a perfect evening for a stroll. I remember the way the world seemed alive, buzzing with energy and possibility, and how that energy pulled me outside. As the cool and warm breeze brushed past my neck, I felt a vibration in my pocket. My phone buzzed with a notification. Curious, I pulled it out and unlocked the screen. It was a message from an unknown number. "Hi, my name is Daniel." I stared at the screen, my brow furrowing in confusion. I hadn’t shared my number with anyone, so how had this person gotten it? Hesitant, I typed back, "How did you get my number?" The reply came almost immediately. "I can't tell you." My confusion deepened, mixed now with a flicker of unease. "Who are you?" I asked. "I'm a senior in your major," he responded. "I see you every day passing through the hallway. I've wanted to talk to you for a while now. I saw your picture on your profile when they added your number to the general group chat, so I decided to message you." I read his response again, my heart beating a little faster. His words were bold but oddly disarming. Part of me felt flattered, while another part questioned if this was crossing a line. Who was Daniel, really ? I replied firmly, telling him I didn’t know him and that it was rude to take my number from a group chat without asking. His response wasn’t what I expected. He simply snickered, sent a laughing emoji, and replied, "I want to meet you. I don’t know if you want to meet me, but I’ll be in school on Monday morning. I’ll wait for you by the hallway." Before I could react, another message came through—a picture of him. He added, "Find me." I stared at the screen, my emotions tangled in a knot of surprise, confusion, and something I couldn’t quite place. I told him not to do it. I insisted he shouldn't wait for me. But deep down, there was a flicker of excitement I couldn’t ignore. My mind kept circling back to his boldness. Should I meet him? Should I just ignore him? From Saturday to Sunday, the messages stopped. He didn’t reach out again, and I began to wonder if I’d imagined the whole thing. Then came Monday. After my first class, I saw him. He stood in the hallway, just as he’d promised. He wasn’t hard to spot. Average height, dark skin that seemed to glow in the sunlight streaming through the windows, and a fleshy build that made him look strong but approachable. But what struck me most was his face—unbearably handsome, with a smile that seemed to radiate effortless charm. It wasn’t just his looks; it was his presence. A charisma that drew people to him, particularly the girls. They surrounded him, their laughter ringing in the hallway as they competed for his attention, fluttering around him like bees to honey. My breath caught as I recognized him from the photo he sent. It was him. I couldn’t summon the courage to approach. Instead, I lowered my gaze and walked past, hoping he wouldn’t notice. But then I heard it—his voice, cutting through the chatter of the girls. "Hey, you!" I froze. "Yeah, you," he called again, leaving the girls around him mid-sentence. I turned slowly, feeling every pair of eyes in the hallway on me. And there he was, his gaze fixed on me, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Were you really going to ignore me?” he asked, his voice smooth yet teasing, a half-smile playing on his lips as he closed the distance between us. My heart skipped a beat. I could feel every eye in the hallway on us, people whispering, speculating. Their chatter filled the space, but all I could focus on was him. I wanted to leave, to disappear from this moment. But I was frozen—torn between not wanting to be rude and feeling like I owed him nothing. Finally, I managed to mumble, "I’m sorry, I have something to take care of. I’ll see you later." I tried to bolt, eager to escape the suffocating attention, but he reached out and gently held my wrist. His grip was soft yet firm, grounding me to the spot. "At least say hi," he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "I sent you my picture for a reason." His words melted something inside me. I didn’t know what it was—a mix of flattery and fear. But at the same time, an inner voice screamed at me to get away. This is dangerous. He’s dangerous. Summoning all my strength, I pulled my hand free from his grasp. "I have to go," I said quickly, avoiding his gaze as I walked away. The next few days were a blur of avoidance. I started noticing him everywhere—especially at the cafeteria near the freshers' hall. It didn’t make sense. He wasn’t a first-year, so why was he always there? He’d sit with his friends, laughing and eating as though he belonged. But every time I passed by, he’d find a way to make his presence known. Sometimes he’d step out to greet me, calling my name casually, like we were old friends. Other times, he’d simply watch me, his gaze steady and unreadable. I began avoiding the cafeteria altogether, taking longer routes just to ensure I wouldn’t run into him. This went on for weeks—almost a month. And then, one night, as I sat in my room trying to study, my phone buzzed. "Hi, it’s Daniel. I hope I don’t offend you." My heart sank. The words were simple, but they carried a weight that unsettled me. Guilt? Fear? Or something else entirely? I Couldn't decide