After my birthday, everything at school started to feel different—but not in a loud, obvious way.
It was more like the small things mattered more.
The way Roy said my name when he passed me in the hallway. The way he waited an extra second before turning away, like he wanted to say something but wasn't sure how. The way my heart reacted every time I noticed him noticing me.
I tried not to think about it too much.
But thinking about it too much was all I did.
On Monday morning, I arrived at school early and sat at my desk, flipping through my notebook even though class hadn't started. I felt nervous for no reason I could explain. My foot tapped against the floor as I waited, pretending to read while secretly watching the door.
When Roy walked in, my chest tightened.
He looked around, spotted me, and smiled.
Just like that.
It wasn't dramatic or confident. It was small and shy, like it belonged just to me. I smiled back before I could stop myself.
In class, we didn't talk. But somehow, that didn't matter. Every shared glance felt like a quiet conversation. When the teacher asked a question and I raised my hand, I felt Roy glance back at me, and for the first time, I didn't second-guess myself. I spoke clearly.
I answered correctly.
That felt important.
At lunch, Zara noticed immediately.
"You're different," she said, poking my shoulder. "You look… lighter."
I shrugged. "I'm still the same."
She raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
I didn't answer, but my smile gave me away.
Later that day, during English class, our teacher announced a group assignment.
"Partners," she said. "You'll be working together for the next two weeks."
My heart started pounding.
I watched as people quickly paired up, chairs scraping across the floor. Zara was pulled away by someone else before she could sit next to me. For a moment, panic rose in my chest.
Then Roy stood up.
He walked toward my desk slowly, like he wasn't completely sure if he should.
"Do you—" he started, then stopped. "Do you want to be partners?"
I looked up at him.
"Yes," I said, a little too quickly. Then, quieter, "I mean—yeah. That'd be nice."
He smiled, relief clear on his face. "Okay. Cool."
We sat next to each other, both pretending to focus on the assignment sheet while clearly thinking about something else. Our shoulders were close, but not touching. Every time he leaned in to read something, I held my breath.
"So," he said after a while, "you like writing, right?"
I nodded. "Yeah. A lot."
"That's awesome," he said. "I'm not very good with words."
"I think you're fine," I replied without thinking.
He blinked, surprised, then smiled again. "Thanks."
After school, we walked out together.
The air felt warmer than usual, and the noise of other students faded into the background. We talked about the assignment, about teachers, about random things that didn't really matter—but somehow, everything felt important.
When we reached the corner where we usually went our separate ways, we stopped.
"I'll text you about the project," Roy said.
"Okay," I replied.
There was a pause.
Then he waved, and I waved back.
That night, I opened my notebook and wrote everything down.
Not just about Roy—but about how I felt braver. About how turning thirteen didn't mean changing who I was. It meant discovering new parts of myself.
Including the part that smiled every time Roy said my name.