2013: Digital Courage
My finger hovered over the send button, trembling slightly. The message I'd drafted and deleted a dozen times glowed on my phone screen:
Hi Aisha, I don't know if you remember me from tuition. There's something I've wanted to tell you for years. I've always admired you—not just your intelligence, but your kindness and the way you see the world. I know this might seem sudden, but I've had feelings for you since we first met.
Outside my window, Sharjah's night lights blurred through the curtains. My heart hammered against my ribs as I finally pressed send, watching the message slip into the digital void of Instagram. A moment of madness, perhaps, but after five years of silence, the words demanded release.
I waited, minutes stretching into hours. When the notification finally came, it wasn't a reply but a hollow status change: User not found.
Blocked. The digital equivalent of a door slammed in my face.
That night, I learned that some bridges, once burned, leave no trace they ever existed.
2015: Calculus and Chemistry
"You're doing it wrong," came a voice from beside me, gentle but certain.
I looked up from my calculus problem, which had become a mess of crossed-out attempts and frustrated scribbles. The girl next to me had been quietly working through her own problems, but apparently my struggles had become too painful to witness.
"Here," she said, sliding her notebook toward me. "You missed a step when differentiating."
Her name was Leela. Unlike Aisha's measured seriousness, Leela carried herself with a playful confidence. Her notebook was immaculate yet filled with tiny doodles in the margins—perfect mathematical formulas surrounded by cartoon stars and flowers.
"Thanks," I mumbled, embarrassed but grateful.
"No problem. Sometimes we just need a different perspective."
Over the following weeks, Leela and I developed a routine—solving problems side by side, checking each other's work, celebrating small victories with shared chocolate from the vending machine.
Unlike my previous silence, we talked easily about everything: our favorite movies, our dreams for college, our fears about the future. Everything except what was gradually happening between us. Because something was happening—in the way she'd touch my arm when laughing, the way I'd find myself searching for her in crowded hallways, the way time seemed to accelerate in her presence.
She was the opposite of what had drawn me to Aisha—where Aisha was calm waters, Leela was a sudden summer storm. Her laughter filled rooms. Her mind jumped from topic to topic with dizzying speed. She approached calculus with the same enthusiasm she approached impromptu dance competitions in the parking lot.
"Life's too short to be so serious all the time," she often said, usually while convincing me to take some small risk I'd normally avoid.
By 2017, with high school drawing to a close, the unspoken thing between us had grown too large to ignore. Yet I did ignore it, paralyzed by memories of rejection and the looming separation as college approached.
I had secured admission to CET College in Kerala for mechanical engineering through the KEAM examinations—a source of pride for my parents, who had always dreamed of my return to our ancestral home for higher education.
On our last day of tuition, Leela and I sat on the steps outside the center, watching the sun set over Sharjah.
"So, Kerala, huh?" she said, her voice unnaturally casual.
"Yeah. My parents are thrilled."
"And you?"
I shrugged, unable to articulate the conflicting emotions churning inside me. "It's a good opportunity."
She nodded, drawing patterns on the step with her finger. "Will you come back to visit?"
"Probably during holidays."
A heavy silence fell between us, filled with words neither of us dared to speak.
"I should get going," she finally said, standing up. "My mom's waiting."
I stood too, awkwardly shoving my hands in my pockets. "I guess this is goodbye then."
Leela looked at me for a long moment, her eyes searching mine for something—permission, perhaps, or invitation. Finding neither, she simply smiled and said, "Not goodbye. See you later."
She hugged me quickly, the scent of jasmine and graphite lingering after she pulled away. Then she was gone, walking down the street we'd traveled together countless times, her silhouette gradually fading into the gathering dusk.
I watched until she disappeared around the corner, taking with her another chapter of what might have been.
Kerala awaited. Another beginning. Another chance, perhaps.
But as I turned to walk home, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was leaving something essential behind—not just in Sharjah, but within myself. The courage to speak what my heart held.
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