Blessed to feel this
I was seeing her every day that semester, library, canteen, those evening workshops we both somehow ended up signing up for. Not planned. Just routine. Same time, same room, same long corridors between classes where we’d walk with a group and somehow end up beside each other.
She was the kind of person who made quiet feel comfortable. She wasn’t loud, wasn’t always trying to prove a point. But she had this way of noticing. If you hadn’t eaten, she’d know. If you were laughing too much, she’d know you were covering something. And she wasn’t doing it to impress anyone; she was just built like that. Present.
And I was starting to care.
Not in the casual, ha - ha - she’s - cute way. It was deeper than I wanted to admit. I was watching her speak to others, smile at jokes I hadn’t cracked, lend a pen to someone else, and my heart was reacting like it had a stake in all of it. And the worst part was, I wasn’t saying anything.
I wasn’t flirting. I wasn’t confessing. I was just... showing up. Every day. Sitting near her when I could. Noticing what kind of tea she liked. Matching her pace when we walked together in groups. Waiting for her texts when she sent memes late at night, pretending I didn’t care that she never said goodnight.
I was doing the things people do when they’re not sure if they’re in love yet, but are already in too deep to stop.
One evening, after a student event, we were walking back to the hostel blocks. It was late. Dark enough that only streetlights remembered our shadows.
“Do you believe in soulmates?” she asked, out of nowhere.
I smiled. “I don’t know. I think... I believe in people who feel at home. Even if they don’t stay.”
She looked at me like she was hearing something meant for someone else.
Then she said, “I think I’ve found someone like that recently.”
I stopped walking for a second. Just enough to gather myself.
“Oh?” I said, trying to make it sound casual.
She nodded. “I didn’t see it coming. But I feel... seen, you know?”
I was nodding, but my chest was tightening in a way I couldn’t explain. I wanted to say something. I wanted to ask if it was me. But I didn’t. Because deep down, I already knew it wasn’t.
I walked her to her gate. Watched her disappear into the stairs. And then walked back slowly, hands in pockets, music in ears, but nothing really playing.
That night, I sat at my table and wrote down what I couldn’t say.
I didn’t send it. Of course not. But I kept it. Like a secret blessing.
I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t bitter. Just... still. Like someone who had prayed for something, knowing it might not come true.
And still feeling grateful for the prayer.