The unrequited love

chapter 2 (beautiful again)

i clear my throat, gripping the edge of my notebook like it might anchor me. “the cardiac cycle... starts with atrial systole,” i say slowly, carefully. shaheer’s eyes don’t leave mine, not in a scary way—more like he’s listening. actually listening. and suddenly, i want to do well, not for marks, not for the class, but because he asked.

“...then the ventricles contract, pushing blood into the arteries. the lub and dub sounds, they... they come from the closing of valves.”

he nods once, gently. “good. keep going.”

somehow, i do. i finish the whole explanation without messing up the diagrams or choking on my words. when i sit down again, my palms are sweating, but the girl beside me whispers, “you nailed it.” i smile without meaning to. maybe today won’t go in the trash folder of my memory after all.

the rest of the class goes by in a blur—notes, mnemonics, quick jokes shaheer drops mid-lecture that actually make people laugh. even the toppers.

as he closes the session, he says, “don’t forget to breathe, not just during respiration chapters, but in real life too.” then he looks in my direction again—just briefly—and leaves.

we all begin to pack our bags. the sun’s almost down now, shadows stretching long across the corridor floor. i walk out with the crowd, but something inside me feels quiet and warm. maybe because i answered in class. maybe because shaheer said my name. maybe because, for a second, i felt like more than just a girl chasing a dream with tired eyes and undone hair.

tomorrow will be another battle. more tests, more formulas, more uncertainty.

but today... today gave me something soft to hold. even if just for a moment.

(the next day)

riding in bus for class has always been my favourite thing... till highschool i never once used the bus. my mom used to drop us—me and my brother. she would pack our boxes, fold our collars right, and wait till we vanished past the school gate. back then, it felt normal. but now? riding the bus feels like a small freedom. a quiet, solitary moment in a day full of chaos.

i always make sure to sit by the window. that seat belongs to me. i plug in my airpods, play my comfort playlist, and open a book—not for studying, just something i love. and in that moment, with the breeze brushing past and a soft song humming in my ears, i feel like the main character. because i am. not in anyone else’s story. just mine.

finally, the institute comes into view. the tall white building with its clinical, intimidating perfection. everytime i enter this place, my chest tightens a little. not because of fear—but because this place was once a far-off dream. i wanted to join here during my first year of high school. but the fees? they were insane. it was like my entire school education cost compressed into two years. we couldn’t afford it then.

but my mom—she made it happen.

she saved every coin, every bonus, cut down on things she loved just to get me in here. two years of dreaming, budgeting, sacrificing. and now, when i walk through the corridors, i carry her love with me. her sacrifices echo in my every step. and yes, sometimes it makes me emotional. but mostly, it reminds me: i don’t get to mess this up.

my class is in the newer block. two walls are made of wide glass panels. from my seat, i can see the treetops swaying, the distant road, and sometimes even the kids playing cricket during breaks. there’s something grounding about that view—like the world is still moving no matter how stuck i feel inside.

the furniture’s all sleek—wooden benches with deep drawers underneath, sturdy desks that don’t wobble like school ones did. big air-conditioners hum above, and there are smart screens instead of blackboards. everything looks and feels... advanced. like the future i want is already staring back at me.

but here’s the rule i’ve set for myself—no distractions. that means no crushes, no fantasies, no teenage love nonsense. i don’t have time for butterflies. i’ve got a medical entrance exam breathing down my neck, and it doesn’t care how charming someone’s smile is.

rule 1: no love. not even secret liking. not even casual daydreams about someone who probably doesn’t even know i exist.

besides, no one’s exactly lining up for me either. i blame the glasses.

i used to feel pretty. confident. back in first year of school, i never thought twice about how i looked. i would wear my hair however, throw on anything, and still feel like i belonged in every picture.

but then came the headaches, the blackboard blur, the optometrist, and eventually... the glasses.

i thought i could own the nerdy-chic look. spoiler: i couldn’t.

the moment i wore them, something shifted. it was subtle. people didn’t say it out loud, but they stopped looking twice. or they’d say, “you looked different before,” like it was a compliment. it wasn’t. slowly, i started feeling invisible. like my glasses were a wall between me and the version of myself i used to love.

but there’s hope.

i ordered contact lenses last week. they’re supposed to arrive in two days, and i swear, it feels like waiting for a magic spell. maybe they won’t change the world—but they’ll change my world. and maybe that’s enough. i just want to look in the mirror and see me again. not the tired, overworked, caffeine-run version of me. but the one who laughed in pictures and liked what she saw.

as i walk into class, i take the second seat from the left in the third row—my unofficial regular spot. i pull out my notes, click my pen, and start reviewing biochemistry. lipid metabolism. fat. energy. cells. i try to focus, but my thoughts drift, like they always do lately.

especially after yesterday.

after shaheer said my name in class.

i still hear it in his voice. not dramatic or dreamy—just casual, but like he already knew me. that one moment, it felt like someone reached through all my self-doubt and quietly said, i see you.

but rule 1.

i shut the thought down and underline the next heading aggressively. “beta-oxidation.”

the day moves like a blur—notes, formulae, sir throwing quiz questions out of nowhere. my mind stays mostly present, anchored by sheer willpower. we break for lunch. i eat alone today. sometimes by choice, sometimes because it just ends up that way. i don’t mind. the quiet helps.

afternoon classes feel heavier. probably the post-lunch sleepiness. but i make it through. i even answer a question in physics—got half the answer wrong, but sir nodded anyway, like effort counts.

by 5:30, we’re done. bags rustle, chairs scrape, and students spill out into the hallways like water from a broken dam.

i walk out slowly. the evening light filters through the tall glass, casting long golden shadows. everything looks softer now, like the building is finally tired too. i head toward the bus stop, slipping my airpods back in. it’s time for the quiet again—the bus, the breeze, the book.

as i wait, i check the tracking link for my contact lenses. “out for delivery,” it says. i smile.

tomorrow might be a whole new chapter. not because something big will happen. but because i’ll feel a little more me. and that’s the kind of magic i’ve been needing lately.