The first time I saw her, I didn't know it would be the beginning of a story I'd never tell.
It was just another first day of school, another face in the crowd, another seat at the back of the classroom. But something about Room 9th C felt different. The air was heavy, and maybe it was the rain outside that made everything feel too still, too quiet.
I shuffled in late, as usual. The students were already settling into their seats, and I didn't care where I sat. My eyes were glued to the floor, trying not to stand out, trying not to notice the emptiness I'd been carrying for so long.
And then I heard her.
A soft, almost melodic voice that seemed to cut through the noise. "Good morning." The way she said it wasn't like the others. It wasn't forced or rushed—it was like she was speaking to each one of us individually.
I lifted my eyes just enough to see her standing at the front. Mrs. K. Her name was simple, ordinary—but nothing about her felt ordinary(The name is a mystery)She was there, in front of the room, not demanding attention but somehow commanding it. Her eyes moved over the class, but I didn't think she saw me—not really. She was just a teacher, just another adult who would pass through my life and leave no trace.
But somehow, she did leave a trace.
The next few weeks passed in a blur. The hum of students, the shuffle of books, the same old routine. But every time I walked into that room, I felt her presence before I even saw her. It wasn't the way she taught—it was the way she was. Quiet, composed, never hurried, like she knew exactly where she belonged, even if none of us did.
I told myself I wasn't interested. I told myself it was just another passing thing—another fleeting moment that would fade with time. But every glance she gave, every brief smile, every time our paths crossed in that room, it stayed with me long after the bell rang.
I told myself it didn't matter. But it did.
One afternoon, she caught my eye. Just a brief moment. A look that lingered for a second longer than it should've. Maybe she didn't even realize it. But I felt it. A pull, like gravity, like she could see something in me that no one else had. But it wasn't the kind of look that made you feel seen—it was the kind that made you feel invisible all at once. It was the kind of look that made your chest ache.
I should've turned away. I should've kept my gaze low, like I always did. But instead, I held onto that look—if only for a moment. I carried it with me for days, weeks, even when I knew it meant nothing. And I knew it did. She was just my teacher. I was just another student. And yet, in that fleeting second, it felt like the world had shifted.
I didn't understand it then, but I do now. The first time I saw her wasn't the start of something real. It was the start of a quiet ache that would never go away.