I closed the letter and didn’t even sigh this time.

I just smiled.
That weird kind of smile that makes you check your own face in the mirror, like—“What’s your problem now?”

Because seriously… this woman.
In the beginning, I thought she was just a sweet, slightly clueless schoolgirl writing about her “oh-so-complicated” feelings.

But now?

Now I get it.

She wasn’t just crushing.
She was doing full PhD in silent romance, with a minor in “How to fall in love through passive eye contact and terrible seating arrangements.”

Like—who lives like this?

Who makes a whole epic out of walking beside someone during school prayer?

Who counts three head turns as divine signs from the universe?

I mean, wow. The emotional GPS in these letters is insane.

Every glance is a poem. Every missed interaction? A Shakespearean tragedy.

And the worst part?

It’s working on me.

Like, actually working.

These letters—
They start out as “just memories,” and then, slowly, they possess you.
By the end of every single one, I’m either smiling like an idiot, crying internally, or re-evaluating my entire understanding of human affection.

And don’t even get me started on the part where he just… shows up in her classroom.

Just… walks in like a casual hallucination.
Sits down. Talks. Breaths the same air.
And somehow, it’s not just creepy.
It’s… tender. Real. Soft.

I’ve seen Surya do a lot of things—trip, mumble, exist vaguely near me like a failed AI bot.
And yet, even after a whole year of sharing the same bench, I never once felt that… spark, that weight of a glance, that “holy” electricity that she wrote about in these letters. If anything, it was the opposite—ordinary, clumsy, sometimes irritating. The world didn’t tilt. Nothing softened. Just him, and me, and a long year of nothing happening.

That level of quiet confidence? No chance.

This entire science fair arc?
It’s not even about the fair anymore.
It’s a full-blown documentary on how two emotionally constipated teenagers fell in love without saying a single word.

Like, what am I even supposed to do with this?

Frame it?

Use it as an emotional benchmark?

Apply for therapy?

I swear, if these letters keep going, I’ll end up clapping like a fangirl in the mirror and crying over a relationship that happened decades before I was even born.

And the ending line?

“Maybe that was enough.”

Of course it was.
Because love, for her, wasn’t about confessions or drama.
It was about showing up. Waiting.
Not even waiting for anything in particular. Just… waiting.
Not even Together.Just Alone.

And I…
I don’t know how to process that.

Because that kind of love?
Where you don’t even need to talk to feel seen?

I haven’t even stepped close to it.

Not with Surya. Not with anyone.

Maybe that's why I keep reading.
Maybe that’s why these letters end with this weird, involuntary smile on my face.

Sweet, or irritating. Bittersweet, or heartbreaking.

But real. Always real.

Yeah, then I continued with next letter :

"After the science fair, the next major event was the farewell.

You know, usually 9th class will be given the responsibility to organize the farewell for the 10th class students. I didn’t have much interaction with him during that time because I was assigned to deliver the farewell invitations to all the teachers. I was pretty busy running around, trying to do everything perfectly.

But again, B and Maya—do you remember Maya?—they were lucky. They got to watch the Mime rehearsals. Yeah, the same Mime that was performed on farewell day, and guess what? He was in that Mime team.

Of course, I missed it. Again.

What kind of luck is that, Anveshna? Others got to see him doing something cool, and I was just handing papers to teachers like a postwoman with no storyline.

And on the farewell day itself, I don’t really remember much. I don’t think there were any significant interactions between us. Nothing sparkly happened, just the usual blur of emotional speeches, songs, and forced smiles.

But I had a plan. You see, Maya and he both walked home in the same direction after school—left side from the gate—and I used to go right, opposite. That day, I had already decided I’d go with Maya to her home. Just in hope. In hope that I’d get to walk behind him for a few extra steps… till at least the bus stop.

Yeah, I know how that sounds.

But I didn’t tell Maya the real reason. I just said I’d visit her. Deep inside, I thought maybe I’d get to see him walking, talking, existing in those few extra metres of air I could breathe in.

And yet… I panicked.

I rushed Maya before the boys came. Ran, as if I was running from a crime scene. And I missed that walk again. How foolish could I be?

In that process, I even broke my chappal. Imagine—running for nothing and losing a chappal on top of it.

And that day, when I finally reached Maya’s house, I tried to distract myself. Her grandmother was sweet. The kind of warmth that makes you forget your little heartbreaks. And then, suddenly, the news came in—from tomorrow, no more school.

Virona.

The cabinet had declared lockdown starting that very night. March 14th, 20XX. A Saturday. Our farewell was the last event before the world shut down.

(Note: Virona is the fictional pandemic in this story, inspired by events similar to the real-world coronavirus outbreak.)

And that was it. The 10th was completed in Virona. Half of 11th, too. But during the early days of 10th, we were called back for a brief period—maybe a month—when cases dropped a bit. And in that month… there were three little moments. Three interactions. Maybe accidental. Maybe fated. But I remember them vividly."

I stared at the words “I even broke my chappal” for a good minute.

Because of course she did.

Only she could make running away from her own plan sound poetic.
She literally had a pre-decided stalking schedule, and still managed to ditch herself. Iconic.

And I love how she says “nothing sparkly happened.”
Yeah, sure. Except she sprinted in the opposite direction, shattered her footwear, and metaphorically broke her own heart in the process.

But no—nothing sparkly.

Honestly, I’m impressed at the way she keeps pretending it was all one-sided. Like he was just a background character in her inner Bollywood monologue.
Woman. You planned an entire detour across town for the hope of walking behind him.
And he? He kept showing up everywhere like he had a copy of your schedule.

Who are you trying to fool?

Me?
Yourself?

Because it’s so clear now. From the science fair, from the class shifts, from the birthday stare, from the silent classroom entrance—
The boy was into you.
Like, actually.
Not in a grand, roses-and-music-video way. But in that "I’ll see you orbit around me silently, notice your absences, and change my steps to match yours" kind of way.

That's not a green flag. That’s a meadow.
A full, chlorophyll-rich photosynthesizing meadow.

And let me just say—surya?
He wouldn’t even notice if I disappeared mid-conversation.
He’d probably just continue texting “ok cool 👍” and assume I became invisible.

This guy, though?
Your mysterious mime-boy?My Dad

He was practically out here doing emotional semaphore with his eyeballs.
And you? You kept acting like it was all just in your head.

Girl. Be serious.

Also, “farewell”—what a word.
Farewell to school, farewell to plans, farewell to chappals… and apparently, farewell to common sense.

And then… Virona.
Of course. The virus had better timing than people's past crushes.

Like imagine—just when she’s starting to maybe acknowledge her feelings, the entire world says: “And now, isolation.”

Perfect.

And yet…

And yet, she still remembers three interactions.
From a month.
Three.

Of course she does.

Because for people like her… and unfortunately, people like me too…
Even a moment is enough to hold onto.
Even half a sentence, or one glance, or a maybe-smile from the wrong side of the school gate—we archive that stuff like sacred relics.

So yeah.

She didn’t confess.
Didn’t admit he liked her.
Didn’t even take the walk she planned.

But somehow, the emotion still got delivered.
Through broken sandals, missed buses, science fairs, and virus lockdowns.

And that’s the thing with these letters.
They don’t just tell you the story.
They leak the truth in between the lines.

Even when she won’t say it, I can feel it.

She was in love.

And maybe—just maybe—he was too.