Chapter 1 – That One Glance
I never believed in love at first sight. Honestly, I never even thought much about love at all. I was just a quiet 16-year-old boy, sitting on the last bench of my 9th-grade classroom, lost in my own little world where I barely spoke to anyone and spent more time drawing in my notebook than listening to teachers.
But then… she walked in.
It was the first day of school after summer break. The morning was just like any other — the same old school bell, the same chatter of classmates, and the same dusty classroom windows. But when the door opened, and she stepped inside, everything around me… paused.
She wasn’t doing anything special. Just standing there near the door, holding her bag, looking for a seat. But to me, she looked like something pulled out from the pages of a book I hadn’t read yet. Her hair was tied in a messy ponytail, her eyes a little nervous, but still confident. She had that kind of presence that made the whole room feel different — softer, warmer, realer.
The teacher asked her name.
"Riya," she said. Just that. No last name, no drama — but that name stayed in my head like a song on repeat.
She took the empty seat near the window — two rows ahead of me. I remember that detail as if it’s tattooed in my memory. I kept looking — not staring, just… noticing. The way she moved her hair behind her ear. The way she smiled politely at the girl next to her. The way she quietly opened her notebook and wrote the date with a neat hand.
And just like that, everything changed.
For the first time, I didn’t wait for the bell to ring so I could go home. For the first time, I wanted the class to go on. I wanted to stay. Just to sit behind her. Just to watch her exist.
It was weird — how one glance could shake something so deep inside. My heart didn’t race like in the movies. No violins played in the background. But something subtle shifted in me. Like the world had added a new color I’d never seen before.
That evening, I opened my rough notebook, the one where I usually scribbled random lines or song lyrics. But instead, I wrote:
"She walked in like a soft breeze,
And suddenly, everything felt lighter."
I didn’t know what it meant exactly. But I knew it was about her.
From that day, I started observing the smallest things. What color her clips were. How she held her pen. When she laughed during class. And every night, I’d write a few lines about her — tiny poems, raw thoughts, unfinished sentences — as if I was trying to hold on to the feeling of that one glance.
She didn’t know I existed.
And maybe that’s what made it so honest.
It wasn’t love. Not yet.
It was something softer. A beginning. A hope.
And somewhere deep down, I knew…
This was the start of a story I wouldn’t be able to forget.
Chapter 2 – Silence Between Us
Days passed, and so did weeks. But the space between me and her remained unchanged — two benches, a world of silence, and the weight of everything I wanted to say but never did. She was always there, sitting by the window with her hair tied back, eyes focused, mind probably miles away from mine. I had become used to observing her — the quiet rhythm of how she turned pages, the soft tap of her pen on the desk, the way sunlight danced on her cheek during the first lecture.
In those small, quiet moments, I found magic. And in that magic, I found peace. Still, I never dared to talk to her. I often imagined conversations — in my head, I was bold. I’d walk up to her and say, “Hi, I’m Krunal,” and she would smile and say “Hey,” and we’d talk about music or books or anything at all. But none of that happened outside my imagination. The silence between us wasn’t just physical — it was like a wall I had built with my own fears.
Then, one day, life did something unexpected.
An intra-class quiz competition was announced. I had no interest in participating, but our class teacher thought I was smart enough and added my name without asking. Nervously, I took part. And somehow, I answered almost every question right. I still remember the shock on everyone's faces. I had always stayed quiet, hidden in the background — and suddenly, I was the center of attention. People clapped. The teacher smiled. But in that moment, I only noticed one thing — her.
She turned around and looked straight at me. And she smiled.
It wasn’t a big smile, just a gentle, soft curve of her lips. But for someone like me, who had waited for even a glance, that smile felt like the world had stopped spinning for a second just to notice me. I froze. I smiled back, but maybe too late, maybe too awkward. Still, that one moment gave me something I had never felt before — a tiny flicker of hope.
That night, I wrote in my notebook again: “She smiled, and suddenly, I forgot every reason I was ever shy.”
The next day, something happened that still doesn’t feel real when I think about it. As I sat quietly in my seat, she passed by and placed a folded sheet on my desk. I looked at it, surprised. It was my quiz answer sheet. And on it, in small neat handwriting, were just two words: Well done.
That’s it — no name, no emoji, no extra words. But I read those two words a hundred times. Her handwriting was soft, slightly tilted, as if even her letters carried grace. I folded the paper like a love letter, even if it wasn’t one, and slipped it into my notebook like a secret meant only for me.
After that day, we had small exchanges. She once borrowed my pen. Another time, she asked for a spare page. These were tiny things, but to me, they felt like lifelines. We never really talked, not like in my dreams. But in those moments, in those glances and smiles, I felt seen. And that was enough for my heart to hold on to.
But life has a strange way of changing without warning.
One morning, she wasn’t there. Her seat near the window was empty. I thought maybe she was just sick. But then she didn’t come the next day either. Or the next. And after a week, a teacher announced casually, almost as if it didn’t matter, “She’s been transferred to another school. Her family moved to a new city.”
Just like that, she was gone.
No goodbye. No note. No explanation.
The window seat remained empty. And the silence that once felt beautiful now felt unbearable. That evening, for the first time since she entered my world, I didn’t write anything in my notebook. I just stared at the blank page.
And somewhere deep inside me, something whispered a question I didn’t know how to answer:
“How can someone leave so quietly… when they had filled so much space inside you?”
Chapter 3 – She Came Back, But I Was Gone
Years passed. Seasons changed. School ended. And life moved on… or at least, it pretended to.
After she left, something inside me quietly broke. I still went to school, gave my exams, smiled when people talked — but something in me stayed frozen at that empty window seat. I never told anyone about her. It wasn’t a love story that began or ended — it was just a quiet feeling that lived inside me, silently shaping the way I looked at the world.
I stopped writing for a while. My notebook gathered dust under my bed. The pages where her smile once lived became blank and forgotten. But pain has a strange way of returning as words. And slowly, I found myself writing again — not just about her, but about silence, about leaving, about growing up with unsaid things in your heart.
By the time I turned eighteen, writing had become the only way I understood myself. I never planned to be a writer, but life has its own plans. I started a blog anonymously, shared poems, short thoughts, pieces of pain that felt too heavy to carry alone. People read them. Some even said it helped them. Slowly, those small pieces turned into a book — a story of a boy who loved in silence, who waited, who lost, and who found himself in words.
And one day, that book became a bestseller.
Everyone suddenly wanted to know who I was. “Krunal Mehta,” the name was now on websites, in bookstores, in interviews. But deep inside, I was still the boy sitting on the last bench, quietly looking at the girl by the window.
And then… she came back.
I was at a small bookstore in the city for a book signing event. The crowd was modest — college students, young readers, a few teachers. I was signing copies, smiling politely, when I saw her.
Riya.
She looked older now — more confident, sharper — but it was her. The same eyes, the same quiet presence. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. My hand froze in the middle of signing someone’s name. She stood at the end of the line, holding my book in her hand.
When her turn came, she stepped forward. Our eyes met after all these years.
“I read your book,” she said softly. “It felt familiar… like I knew the boy you were writing about.”
I smiled gently. There was so much I could’ve said. That it was about her. That I never really moved on. That a part of me still lived in the silence between our two benches. But instead, I just said, “Thank you.”
She nodded. “You write beautifully.”
And then she left.
Just like the first time — quietly.
But this time, something was different.
This time, I wasn’t the same boy.
She had come back… but I was already gone.
Gone from that old version of me who used to hide behind silence. Gone from the shy boy who didn’t know how to speak his heart. I had become someone else — someone shaped by pain, yes, but also by growth, healing, and purpose.
As she walked away through the glass doors, I didn’t feel broken. I didn’t feel regret.
I felt peace.
Because not all love stories need a happy ending with holding hands. Some love stories end with a pen, a notebook, and a boy who finally found himself.
The End.
