When We Were Almost

THE CONVERSATION THAT WASN'T READY

SARAH

It happened on a Tuesday.

I don’t know why I remember it so clearly. Maybe because it wasn’t supposed to happen. Maybe because, in that moment, I thought I’d finally figured it out—how to cross the invisible line that kept Alvin and me apart. I’d spent weeks watching him from the sidelines, analyzing every glance, every shift of his posture. But I had no idea what to say. How to make it real.

It wasn’t like in the movies. There was no dramatic moment where he suddenly walked over, and the world paused for us. No, it was messier than that.

It started with my sketchbook.

I had left it in the hallway near the vending machines, distracted by my phone and Lily’s non-stop chatter about some new band. When I noticed it was missing, I panicked. I couldn’t lose it—not with my drawings, my thoughts, the things I hadn’t even shared with myself yet.

So, I rushed back, and that’s when I saw him.

Alvin was standing near the lockers, my sketchbook in his hands, flipping through the pages as if they were his own. His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t seem annoyed—more like he was trying to figure something out.

I froze, my heart skidding in my chest.

"That’s mine," I said before I could stop myself, the words coming out too quickly. I felt my face go hot. "Um... thanks for holding onto it."

He looked up slowly, and for a moment, our eyes locked like it was some sort of quiet agreement. But then his gaze dropped to the sketchbook in his hands. "You draw?" he asked, his voice softer than I expected.

I nodded, biting my lip. "Yeah. I mean, I try."

He didn’t answer immediately, just flipped to the next page—my unfinished sketches of faces, of people I didn’t know, of moments I couldn’t capture in words. He paused on one of a boy sitting alone by the window, his face hidden in shadows. My heart stopped in my chest.

"That’s… good," he said after a long silence.

I felt the weight of his words more than I should have. It was stupid. Just a compliment, right? But it felt like he saw me—really saw me—in a way no one else did. The silence stretched, thick and awkward, as if the next thing I said had to matter. As if anything I said could make or break whatever strange thread was pulling us together.

"So," I started, my voice cracking slightly, "do you like drawing?"

Alvin glanced up at me again, his eyes unreadable. "I don’t know. I just… do it. Sometimes it makes things feel clearer." He looked back down at the sketchbook, a slight frown tugging at his lips. "This one’s different, though."

"Which one?" I asked, my breath coming a little quicker. I didn’t want him to see how badly I was shaking.

He turned the page to a sketch of a girl—long, messy hair, a lost look in her eyes. It was a sketch of me.

My throat tightened.

"Why did you draw her?" Alvin’s voice was so quiet, like he wasn’t sure if he should even ask.

I didn’t know how to answer. The sketch was old—unfinished—and yet it was like he was looking straight into the parts of me I never let anyone see.

"I guess… I don’t know," I mumbled, suddenly feeling small. "She just… she looked like someone who needed to be seen." My words didn’t sound as brave as I wanted them to. They felt too fragile in the air between us.

There was a long pause. I couldn’t tell if he understood, or if he was just confused by how much of me I’d let slip.

Finally, he sighed, closing the sketchbook and handing it back to me. His fingers brushed against mine in the process, and for a second, everything went still—like the world around us stopped, waiting to see what would happen next.

"I didn’t mean to… make it weird," I said quickly, taking the sketchbook from his hands, my voice too fast and too loud. I could feel my heart racing. "I just—I didn’t think you’d notice."

"Notice what?" He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in a way that made him seem less like the mysterious boy I’d been avoiding and more like someone who was as confused as I was.

I swallowed hard, trying to find the words. "Notice me," I whispered, almost to myself.

But he heard it. His face softened, like he wanted to say something back but didn’t have the right words either. Instead, he just nodded once, as if that was enough for both of us. Enough for the silence to settle between us again.

"Well," he said quietly, stepping back slightly. "You’re noticed."

And just like that, he turned and walked away.

I stood there, holding my sketchbook against my chest, my hands shaking.

He hadn’t said anything profound. He hadn’t told me he liked me, or that he understood. It wasn’t the perfect conversation. It wasn’t a declaration.

But for the first time, I felt like he had finally seen me. The real me. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.