"There was this one time I was trying to get glimpses of him during sports event.
And you know what’s the worst thing?
A volley ball hit me,
People may or may not like me, but balls? Balls really like me.
I’m not even joking. Literally every ball finds me.
Once, I even got my nose broken by my own friend.
She threw the ball, and it hit me right on the nose. Clean shot."
I stop reading for a second and mutter:
If your reflexes and observation skills were even slightly functional, no ball would be able to touch you.
Not a ball, not a branch, not even heartbreak.
How baby can someone be?
Back to the letter:
"During a sports day competition, there was a shot put game.
Girls were sitting on the stairs, boys on the ground.
Me? I was, again, sitting behind him — upper angle, perfect stalking height.
Of course, I looked at him.
And suddenly, he turned back.
I immediately looked away. He noticed. Just for a moment. Then turned back.
Five minutes later, guess what? I looked again.
Yes, even after being caught. Shameless, I know.
And like some slow-motion romcom punishment, he turned back again.
That stare?
“When I look at you, you look away.
But when I don’t look at you, you keep staring at me?
How is this okay?”
That was the second time I remember actually fearing his eyes.
As I’ve already said… something about them felt like truth serum. Or lie detectors. Or both."
I rolled my eyes and sigh:
So basically… we’re still trying to figure out if this is love or well-dressed stalking.If you’re gonna stalk someone, at least learn from a pro. It’s a skill. And from this letter? She was operating at full amateur level. No armour, no plan—just pure emotional chaos.
and continued reading again,
"Remember I told you about the outside lunch thing?
Boys used to finish their lunch early and play in the corridors.
Girls? We take our time. Because we have taste. And we chew. Boys just inhale.
To get to our classroom, we had to take the stairs and pass his class.
So all the girls stopped — because the corridor was full of running boys.
But me?
I saw him.
And I moved.
He was already ahead of me, walking.
I adjusted my path so that for just a few seconds, we were walking together.
Not seven steps. Not even a conversation.
But I swear — I took three steps beside him.
He was chasing his friend towards the boys’ stairs, which — lucky for me — was also my route.
And in that tiny moment, something in me felt like this is enough.
Not seven sacred steps around a fire.
Just three.
Three steps next to him.
For a girl who’d survived months on stolen glances, those three steps were a feast."
I close the letter, shake my head and mutter to myself:
Three steps? Seriously?
Every letter feels like it’s aging backward. Like she’s turning school corridor into a wedding aisle.
And now that she’s married him? Wow. Seven steps completed. Full circle. Fantasy unlocked. Congrats.
Meanwhile, me?
Forget seven.
Forget three.
I’ll be lucky if I ever get to walk even behind Surya without tripping over my self-respect.
No aisle. No music.
Just me, stumbling in the background like a blurry extra in someone else’s love story.
Now I get it. Teenage love is really dumb.
May be Beautiful, But definitely dumbest.
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