I always chose the same seat. It was a habit, but it felt more like a need. The seat by the window, where I could stare out at the courtyard and pretend I was somewhere else. Somewhere far away.
I'd sit there, notebook open but empty, my mind drifting like the clouds outside. The rest of the room would fade, just the way everything else seemed to fade when she was around. Mrs. K, standing at the front, writing on the board in that graceful way she had. She didn't rush. She didn't have to. Her presence was enough.
I didn't realize at first how often I would catch myself watching her. It wasn't intentional, it wasn't a conscious decision. But every day, I found my gaze drifting toward her, lingering on the way her hair moved, the way her fingers held the chalk. The way she could speak without needing to fill every silence, the way she never seemed to notice when I couldn't tear my eyes away from her.
She would always glance around the room, but she never saw me. Not really.
"Don't get distracted," I would remind myself. But it never worked. My heart seemed to beat louder every time she stood near my desk. Every time our eyes briefly met, I couldn't look away. I told myself it didn't mean anything. But I knew it did.
One day, during a long lecture about something I'd already forgotten, she paused, her gaze sweeping across the room. It lingered just a little longer than usual, as if she'd caught sight of something—someone. For a split second, I thought she'd seen me, that she knew. But when I looked down, when I looked away, I could feel my pulse quicken. The moment was gone. She was just doing her job, looking at us the way she looked at every student. But to me, it felt different.
I wanted to say something. I wanted to ask her if she remembered my name, if she noticed how much time I spent staring out the window, lost in thoughts I couldn't share.
I wanted to tell her I had been falling for her—quietly, desperately.
But I never did.
I kept my silence, even when it felt like the weight of my feelings might crush me. Because I knew better. She was my teacher. And I was just another student. There was no room for feelings like mine.
At the end of every class, she'd thank us for our attention, her voice soft but sure. Every time she said "Goodbye," it felt like a finality. A door I would never open.
But I couldn't help it. Every day, I found myself hoping—hoping that maybe tomorrow, she'd see me differently. Maybe tomorrow, something would shift. But deep down, I knew that was just another illusion, another dream I would never wake up from.
The bell rang. I stood up, gathered my things in a daze, and filed out with the rest of the class. But as I walked out the door, I paused just for a second, glancing back at her—at the woman who would never know how much I needed her.
How could I tell her when I couldn't even tell myself?