I don't know what changed.
Maybe it was her birthday.
Maybe it was the silence afterward.
Or maybe it's just the way time is running out, louder than ever.
But something is different now. In me.
I've started flinching when she says my name. Looking away too quickly. I avoid her eyes like they might burn through me if I stare too long. I used to find comfort in being near her. Now, it feels like standing too close to a fire—warm, but dangerous.
I'm unraveling.
It's not dramatic. No one sees it. On the outside, I'm still the quiet student with decent grades and a thousand thoughts I never say out loud. But inside, I'm tired. Tired of pretending I'm not drowning in feelings I can't speak into existence.
And today, it almost happened.
She called on me in class. Asked a question I didn't hear. I'd been too focused on her lips moving, the soft curve of her voice, the bracelet she wore—still the one she got for her birthday.
"Are you with us?" she asked gently, smiling.
And something inside me snapped.
I don't know what I said. I mumbled something about not sleeping well. She softened instantly.
"Make sure you rest. You're too young to be carrying tired eyes like that."
Too young.
Too quiet.
Too in love with someone who will never know.
After class, I stayed back. I didn't mean to. My body just didn't move when the bell rang. My hands were cold. My heart was loud.
She was packing up when she looked over at me. "Everything alright?"
I wanted to say it.
Right then. Right there.
I wanted to say, "No. I'm not alright. I love you. I think I've loved you from the first day I saw you. I think about you when I shouldn't. I write letters I'll never send. I can't breathe around you and I don't know how to let go."
But all I said was, "Can I ask you something?"
She nodded, smiling like she always does. "Of course."
But I didn't ask. I couldn't. The words died in my throat.
Instead, I forced a stupid question about the syllabus. She answered kindly, patiently, unaware of the storm sitting across from her.
I watched her explain something she'd already said a hundred times. I watched her fingers move across the desk, the way her eyes flicked to mine. And I wanted to reach across the space between us and tell her how hard it is to pretend this is just a class. That she's just a teacher. That I'm just a kid who's supposed to walk away when the year ends.
But I didn't.
Because I'm not brave. I'm just sad.
When I finally left, I didn't look back. I couldn't. I was afraid if I did, I'd say it. Or cry. Or both.
That night, I didn't write a letter.
I just stared at the ceiling and let the silence answer for me