Middle school was louder, taller, and way more complicated than I expected.
The kids were bigger. The hallways felt longer. Everyone had phones, and group chats, and inside jokes I didn't understand. It was like the world had leveled up, and I was still stuck on the beginner screen.
But one thing didn't change.
Amethyst.
She still had that same bright smile and the same way of walking into a room like she already belonged. Only now, she wore her hair in a ponytail with those little purple clips, and she laughed louder, like she wasn't afraid of anything. And I was still me—braces, awkward, a little taller but still nervous every time she looked at me.
So when I saw the sign-up sheet for Student Council Elections outside the guidance office, and noticed Amethyst's name on it, I did something crazy.
I signed up too.
I didn't even read the details. I just wrote Nathan Dominguez in shaky handwriting, then walked away like I hadn't just made the biggest mistake of my life.
---
A week later, I was voted in as class rep. I still don't know how. Maybe no one else wanted the job. Maybe Aaron told people to vote for me as a joke.
Either way, I was in.
Every Thursday after school, the student council met in Room 102. There were snacks on the table (mostly cheap biscuits and juice boxes), and the president—a ninth grader named Kristel—was super serious about everything.
I didn't talk much. I took notes. I helped carry papers. I always sat in the corner near the windows.
Amethyst sat near the middle, raising her hand, sharing ideas like "What if we had a kindness wall?" or "Can we do an arts-and-crafts booth at the fair?" And every time she spoke, everyone listened—even the older kids. I just watched and nodded like I was part of the background.
And that was okay.
I didn't join the council to be important. I joined to be near her. Even if it meant staying invisible.
---
Then things started to change.
One afternoon, during cleanup after a meeting, Amethyst was talking to someone near the whiteboard.
His name was Johan.
He was in seventh grade, like us. He was in the band. He played guitar and wore those black canvas shoes with stickers on them. Everyone thought he was cool because he wrote songs and had a notebook filled with poems.
And Amethyst? She was laughing at everything he said. The kind of laugh where she clapped her hands and leaned forward just a little.
I watched them from the corner, holding a stack of paper cups, feeling something weird in my chest. It wasn't jealousy. Not exactly. It was more like… something slipping away before I even had the chance to hold it.
For the next few weeks, she talked about him more. "Johan wrote this funny song about the lunch menu," or "Julian showed me this poem that made me cry in a good way."
I pretended to listen. I smiled. But inside, I felt small. Like a footnote in someone else's story.
---
That night, I wrote a poem.
I don't even know why. Maybe I wanted to prove something. Maybe I just needed to let something out. I grabbed a scratch paper from my math notebook and started writing.
It wasn't long or fancy. Just a few simple lines:
After a long night of rain,
You walk like a sunny morning.
Your smile, quiet and warm,
Lights up the wold who's busy sleeping.
I didn't put my name on it. I folded it up and slipped it into the box outside the library.
There was a small contest happening—Hearts in Words: A Poetry Contest for February. The winner would get their poem printed in the school paper and read aloud during assembly.
I didn't think I'd win.
I didn't even want to.
---
Two weeks later, something crazy happened.
It was a Monday. We were all sitting in the covered court for the morning assembly. The principal walked up to the mic, holding a printed sheet.
"We received over 50 entries for the Hearts in Words contest," she said. "But one poem stood out. It was short, but beautiful. The writer chose to remain anonymous, but their words touched every judge on the panel."
My chest tightened.
She cleared her throat and began to read:
After a long night of rain,
You walk like a sunny morning.
Your smile, quiet and warm,
Lights up the wold who's busy sleeping.
The crowd was silent. For a full second, it was like the whole school forgot to breathe.
Then people started clapping. Some kids looked around, trying to guess who wrote it. Aaron looked at me, eyebrows raised.
I looked down at my shoes.
Amethyst… was staring straight ahead.
---
After the assembly, the whole day felt like a blur. Kids talked about the poem during lunch. Some said it was written by a ninth grader.
I just ate quietly and avoided eye contact.
Later that day, while we were arranging chairs in Room 102 for the council meeting, Amethyst came up to me.
"Did you hear the winning poem this morning?" she asked.
I nodded. "Yeah. It was really good."
She smiled softly. "It made me feel… seen. You know? Like someone noticed the parts of a person that no one usually talks about."
"Yeah," I said. "I liked that too."
There was a pause.
Then she said, "It kind of reminded me of you."
I looked up. "What do you mean?"
She shrugged, picking up a stack of papers. "You're always quiet. But you notice things. You listen. You see stuff other people miss."
My ears were burning.
"I like that," she said, and walked off to help Kristel.
---
That night, I found a folded note in my locker.
It wasn't signed.
Dear anonymous poet,
I think your poem was about someone who doesn't even know they're special.
Thank you for writing it.
—From someone who saw the light.
I read it three times, then folded it back and placed it in my pencil case.
I didn't reply. I didn't need to.
Something inside me felt different—like maybe I wasn't as invisible as I thought.
---
In the weeks that followed, things didn't magically become perfect.
Amethyst still talked to Johan sometimes. She still wore her purple clips and told silly stories that made everyone laugh. But now, she also smiled at me a little longer in the hallway. She asked for my help during events, even when she didn't need it.
And one afternoon, while we were pinning up posters for the school fair, she turned to me and said, "You know, Tan-tan, I think you're better at writing than you think."
I froze. "Wait… you think I wrote the poem?"
She winked. "I didn't say that."
But she smiled like she knew.
And I smiled back.
---
We weren't a couple. Not even close. But sometimes, she sat next to me during meetings. Sometimes we shared snacks. Sometimes she drew little stars in the corners of my notebook.
And sometimes, when the classroom got quiet, I remembered that poem. The one I never meant for anyone to read.
And I remembered her saying, "You're always quiet. But you notice things."
Maybe that was enough.
For now.