I used to believe that if something was meant to happen, it would.
Love, especially.
But no one tells you about the kind of love that stays unfinished.
The bell rang, loud and sharp, snapping me back to reality. Chairs scraped the floor, voices filled the room, and just like that, another school day ended. Everyone rushed out—laughing, shouting, planning after-school hangouts.
I stayed seated.
Not because I had nowhere to go, but because I was waiting.
He sat two rows in front of me. Same place. Same posture. Same habit of fixing his bag slowly, like he wasn't ready to leave either. We never talked much in class, yet somehow, I knew his movements better than my own.
Almost.
That was the word that followed us everywhere.
Almost sitting beside each other.
Almost holding hands.
Almost saying what we really felt.
I stood up when he did. We walked out at the same pace, not together, not apart—just close enough to feel each other's presence. Close enough to hurt.
"See you tomorrow," he said, stopping at the hallway corner.
Hearing my name from him—"Lia"—even in the quietest way, always made my chest tighten.
Tomorrow.
Another promise that sounded safe.
"Yeah," I replied, forcing a smile. "Tomorrow."
He walked away, and I watched him disappear into the crowd, like he always did. Like he always would.
People say first love is supposed to be exciting. Magical. Loud.
Ours was quiet. Careful. Fragile.
And maybe that was the problem.
Because some loves don't end with goodbyes or heartbreaks.
Some just fade… leaving behind a question you'll carry forever.
What if we were braver?