I had posted casually about some volunteer work I did, and he reacted. That was how our conversation began. Later, he posted about being at an event on animal rights. I asked him what it was, curious if he was interested. He said he was only there because a friend had invited him.
We started talking about the summit, and then, unexpectedly, he video-called me. I was shocked. I had been sitting with my family, caught in a heated discussion about one of my proposals, so I cut the call quickly, promising I was heading to the park. That part was true. I really had plans, but my mind had been elsewhere, wondering if he would notice me today.
He apologised afterwards and even sent a video of the talk. I felt guilty that he went out of his way for me, so I told him not to worry, to just give me a summary later. I also asked him to check if there were any volunteer opportunities available. He said he had spoken to someone and would let me know the next day when he visited the library.
Our conversation meandered, light at first. I teased him about being sheltered, complained about my mother making me clean and organise my room after exams, joked about being treated like Cinderella. Then, slowly, the topics deepened. Nature, early mornings, discipline, the quiet lessons hidden in everyday life. Before I knew it, it was three in the morning.
Later, I remembered the meditation session at the workshop, the way I had fidgeted, unable to sit still. He said something that struck me like lightning. It felt as though he had opened my mind, seen the parts of me I could not put into words, and spoken them aloud.
"You can't stay still because you can't sit with yourself. And that's because you don't want to feel what's inside you. Maybe the emptiness, the shallowness, something you don't like about yourself."
I asked how he could turn that off. The more someone told me to sit in silence, the louder my thoughts became, the heavier the emptiness. He replied, "Maybe something is troubling you, something you would rather not speak of. That's okay. We all carry scars. But remember, we are here to experience and observe life, nothing more. The ambitions we chase are often ways to escape ourselves. In doing so, we lose sight of the beauty of life we are meant to live. Pursue your goals, but stay in touch with yourself, and make sure they come from a place of love, not fear, nor escape."
Those words buried themselves deep inside me. While we talked, his mother had come by, noticed something was off, and suggested he offer prayer. That was when I realised I should pray too. I had been blocked from prayer for so long, carrying a heaviness I hadn't known how to release. That night, I prayed. I cried, the kind of crying that leaves you lighter afterwards. I prayed for myself, for him, and for the guidance that had found me through his words.
After that, everything changed.
I started noticing him everywhere, though I still had my glasses troubles. I learned to recognize him by his walk, his hair, the way his silhouette carried him. I watched him in the library, in the garden, the park nearby. Sometimes he seemed lost in space, almost distant. I wondered if he was forced to study, if he was just young, or if it was something deeper. My heart raced every time I caught a glimpse, and I started timing my visits to coincide with his.
I tried to act casual, but my heart had its own schedule. I lingered by the windows, waited in the lawn, watched him go to prayer and back. I imagined conversations that never happened, and yet the idea of his presence filled me with a quiet joy I could not explain.
There were small, almost comical missteps. I would blurt things out to strangers, hoping he might hear, saying I wanted a spiritually good friend, a little too loudly, making him and his friends laugh. I froze in embarrassment, yet every encounter deepened the strange pull he had on me.
Eventually, I gathered courage. I left my number in his notebook, whispered awkwardly about wanting to talk, stumbled over words about religion, but he understood. He shared book recommendations, gave me his number, smiled, and revealed the calm that I had always envied. Someone came to pick him up, and he left, but the echo of the day stayed with me. I walked around for hours, buzzing, recording videos, telling my friends every detail, afraid I would forget even a single word.
The days became a rhythm of glimpses and conversations. He asked me questions I could not answer, smiled when I admitted it, taught me gently. His laugh, the crinkle of his nose, the way he covered his face in thought, or when he could tell from my expression that I understood, became treasures. I struggled to recognize him at times; his face seemed to shift in memory, yet I never lost the thread of fascination that had begun so long ago.
We talked for hours at a stretch, each conversation deeper than the last. We shared reflections, laughed, debated, and in those moments, I felt a connection that was rare and exhilarating. Each encounter left me thinking about him for days. Each lesson, each small exchange, became part of my own rhythm of living, of noticing, of feeling.
Through all of this, I grew braver. I lingered in the library a little longer, watched him walk through the garden, found myself sitting side by side in workshops, exchanging numbers, sharing thoughts. I walked with him to the exit, spoke with him in the garden, learned from him, and slowly, quietly, something shifted inside me.
I was obsessed once, yes. But now, it was more than that. I was in awe. I was learning. I was reminded of what it felt like to feel deeply, to notice, to care. He was not mine, not really, and yet he became a mirror, showing me parts of myself I had forgotten—the curiosity, the longing, the joy in connection, the courage to speak even when terrified.
Every glance, every word, every misstep, every small victory became part of a continuous story I could not stop living. And in that, I found something unexpected: a kind of peace, a kind of hope, and the quiet understanding that life, in all its ordinary chaos, could still hold moments of extraordinary wonder.