The clock above the blackboard was always louder in the afternoons. Maybe because everyone else was quiet, or maybe because, back then, time seemed determined to remind me how slowly it moved. The sun came in through the blinds in thin golden stripes, catching the dust that hung in the air. Everything felt ordinary, and yet, somehow, I remember that day more clearly than any exam I ever studied for.
Ryder Gonzales was tapping his pencil against his desk, like always. Not to a song — just a rhythm his restless mind made up. I used to think it was the most annoying sound in the world. Now, I'd probably give anything to hear it again.
Who was Ryder?
He was a guy who sat next to me in class. It was the only class I shared with him. It was alphabetical seating. Hart and Gonzales, were bound to collide eventually. I kept my notes neat and precise, underlining key terms like they might save my life. Ryder's notebook, on the other hand, looked like a battlefield. Half doodles, half nonsense, and the occasional word spelled wrong.
Then, a paper ball bounced off my notebook.
I didn't even have to look up to know who it was.
"Your face screams teacher's pet," Ryder whispered, smirking like he'd just said something clever.
I sighed. "Yours screams detention," I whispered back.
He grinned wider. That infuriating, stupidly confident grin, and leaned closer. "Finally, Hart bites back. Took you long enough."
I rolled my eyes. He was probably trying to get on my nerves.
I did not want to get in trouble with the teacher, so I wrote on my notebook and turned it so he could see what I wrote on the margin.
I want to pass this class, so shut up and don't disturb me.
He scribbled something on my notebook and pushed it towards me.
You need to learn how to have some fun, Hart.
He doodled a terrible sketch of me, I had to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing.
That was how it started. Not with fireworks or a movie moment, but with sarcasm written in blue ink between math formulas and half-erased notes. Every day after that, a new doodle would appear. A line of song lyrics. A question like "What's your dream job?" or "If you could be anywhere right now, where would you go?"
I would answer those questions, even when I didn't want to.
Somewhere between the jokes and the sketches, I started looking forward to seeing what he'd write next more than I looked forward to the end of class.
Everyone at school thought we'd end up together. Even the teachers joked about it. "Gonzales and Hart ,opposites attract!" they'd say when we got paired up for projects. Ryder would wink, and I'd roll my eyes so hard I almost saw the back of my brain.
But there were moments , tiny, quiet ones. Ones that made me wonder if everyone else saw something I didn't.
Like the time my pen broke and ink spilled across my notes. Ryder didn't laugh like everyone else. He just tore a page out of his notebook and slid it toward me without saying a word. Or the afternoon he caught me humming in class and scribbled, Don't stop. You're actually good.He looked away when I smiled at that one.
We were kids pretending not to care, but in between the teasing and the eye rolls, there was something honest. Something neither of us dared to name.
One day in late spring, when graduation felt close enough to touch, our teacher mentioned college applications. That word: college. Suddenly made the classroom feel smaller. The future was something we'd always talked about like a faraway planet. Now it was approaching fast, and I could almost hear it humming in the air between us.
When the bell rang that afternoon, Ryder lingered behind while everyone rushed out. He didn't say much, just shoved his books into his bag and gave me a half-smile.
"See you tomorrow, Hart."
"Yeah," I said. "Tomorrow."
But I found something when I opened my textbook that night. Folded neatly between the pages was a sheet of paper, his handwriting unmistakable. Half messy, half rushed, like he didn't want to overthink it.
Don't forget to leave space in your margins. I still have things to say.
It wasn't a love letter. Not really. But I remember reading that line over and over, tracing it with my thumb as if it might fade if I stopped.I smiled then, thinking it was just one of his usual jokes.I didn't know it would be the last note he'd ever write me.
But that last note was more heart-touching than he thought it 'd turn out.
The next week, he stopped sitting beside me. Something about a seating reshuffle. We still talked, but it wasn't the same. The margins stayed empty. Exams came, and then graduation, and then everyone scattered like pages torn from a book.
That summer, I kept his note pinned above my desk. Not because I was waiting for him to write again, but because part of me couldn't stand the blank space it would leave behind if I took it down.
Years later, I'd use that line. Almost word for word, in my novel.Readers thought it was poetic. Some even tattooed it.No one knew it came from a boy who once drew crooked sketches in my notebooks and laughed like he could fill a room with sunlight.
Sometimes, late at night, I wonder if he'd recognize it.If he'd remember the classroom, the ink-stained desks, and how I used to roll my eyes just to hide a smile.If he'd know that every story I ever wrote started with a paper ball that hit my notebook on a slow spring afternoon.
Maybe he would.Maybe he already has.
And sometimes, when the world feels too quiet, I find myself picturing him again.
Ryder Gonzales, with his tanned skin catching the sunlight, green eyes that always looked like they were hiding a secret, and black, messy hair that never listened to gravity. He was taller than me even when we were sixteen, 5'11", all confidence and careless charm.
I wonder if I'd still recognize him now.Or if I've spent so long writing him into fiction that the real version might not exist anymore.