I think I'm counting things more than I ever used to.
How many days until graduation.
How many times I'll see her.
How often I hear her laugh and wonder if it's the last time I'll get to.
Time used to feel endless. Now every second feels like glass slipping through my fingers.
Everything at school is louder these days. Everyone is talking about endings—final exams, colleges, summer plans, parties. I'm floating through it all like I don't exist. Smiling when I should, nodding when they expect it, but my mind is somewhere else. Always somewhere else.
With her.
There's a heaviness in the air when I walk into her classroom now. It clings to me like perfume I can't wash off. Her voice feels softer, like even she knows we're running out of time. Maybe that's just me, imagining things again.
But lately, when she calls my name, there's something in her eyes that lingers a little longer.
And I hate myself for wondering if she feels it too.
I haven't written her a letter in weeks. Not because I've run out of words, but because I'm scared of them now. Scared of what they mean. Scared of what they'll leave behind when all of this is over.
My notebook is full. Pages and pages of her name, and thoughts I can't say out loud. I should throw it away. Burn it. Lock it in a drawer.
But I keep it close. Like a bruise I can't stop touching.
There was a moment last Tuesday. Tiny. Insignificant, probably.
She dropped her pen. I picked it up. Our hands touched—barely. She smiled. Said, "You're always so quiet. But always watching."
I froze.
She didn't mean it like that. I know that. But it felt like she reached inside my chest and pulled out the one truth I'd been hiding this whole time.
I laughed, because I didn't know what else to do. And she just smiled and moved on. Like it was nothing.
But I felt it all the way home.
Outside of school, things feel dull. My friends are already talking like high school is a memory. I'm still stuck in it. In her. In all the things I'll never say. I can't imagine a version of life where I don't see her every day—even from a distance.
The thought of her classroom empty makes my stomach twist.
One evening, I sat in front of a blank letter. I stared at it for an hour before writing anything.
"You said I'm always watching. And I am. But not because I'm curious."
"Because I'm afraid to forget."
"Afraid that if I blink too long, I'll miss the last time I see you."
"I'm scared of the silence that's coming. The kind that isn't chosen."
"The kind that's permanent."
I didn't sign it. I didn't even date it. I just folded it and placed it at the very back of the notebook—buried behind weeks of invisible love.
The days are shorter now. Or maybe they just feel that way.
She still teaches like nothing has changed. Like this is just another year, another group of students. I wonder if any of us ever stick in her memory. I wonder if I will. I wonder if she'll find a letter in a drawer one day and recognize the handwriting. Wonder who it was from.
Or maybe she won't. Maybe this will end the way it began—quietly. Without warning.
Without goodbye