There's this girl—let's call her Terra.
She's your average high school student, juggling homework and trying to keep it together. But there's something about her, something that skips a beat in her chest every time she sees him.
Bright.
That's his name. He walks through the halls like he owns them, and Terra can't help but admire him from afar.
Every time she catches his smile or hears his laugh echo down the corridor, it's like butterflies throw a rave in her stomach. It's silly—she knows they've never spoken and probably never will. But there's a spark whenever he's near, something that makes everything else fall away, even if just for a moment. She imagines what it'd be like if he noticed her—laughing over lunch, passing secret notes in class.
Terra's tried to say hi, really. But her heart races too fast, and the words get stuck in her throat. So, instead, she scrolls through his social media, liking his posts, daydreaming. Wondering what it'd be like if he knew how much she liked him. It's bittersweet—hope wrapped in longing. Because even if Bright doesn't know she exists, in her mind? Their story has already started.
Did I seem annoying? Did I actually say that out loud? It drives me crazy. Sometimes I feel like I'm the most irritating person in the world. My mom thinks I need therapy. Maybe she's right.
My older brother is always bossing me around like he knows what's best, but he has no idea what I'm dealing with. I miss Dad. And honestly, my brother seems so checked out, like nothing I say matters to him.
And then there's the whole thing with my friend. Well, ex-friend now. I lost her because her boyfriend apparently likes me. I've known her since the fifth grade. I'd never go there—but she thinks I like him back. It's such a mess, and I don't even know how it got to this point.
And lately, I've been forgetting things. Little moments, fragments of memories—just gone. That's probably why my mom keeps pushing therapy. Still, I'm not exactly keen on the idea.
A knock at the door pulled me out of my thoughts.
"Terra, hurry up! We're going to be late. You can write this later," Mom called from the other side.
I opened the door, my voice sharp: "Mom, how many times do I have to tell you I don't need therapy? I'm normal. Just like you, Bhaiya… and Dad."
She stepped in close, gently holding my face in her hand. "I know you're normal, beta. But you're alone. You don't talk to us. You keep everything bottled up and just pour it into your writing. That's not enough."
I pulled away. "Stop it, Mom! Just because I write doesn't mean I need therapy. Fine. For you, I'll make friends. Happy?"
"You've said that before," she said, her voice soft but firm. "I trust you. But this time, I'm not taking no for an answer. I swear on your father's name—this time, you're going."
Three years. That's how long it's been since I lost my best friend. And I still haven't moved on. Maybe therapy would help. Or maybe I should just let life unfold the way God intends it to. Either way, I feel like I've run out of things to say. Like I've become… empty.
The sun's warmth is the only thing that still reaches me. It wraps around me in a way nothing else does. After losing a year of my life, I still feel like a child sometimes—untouchable unless I allow it.
But sometimes…
I wish for someone to touch me.
Even if I don't know who that someone is.
I talk to myself a lot. Maybe too much. Maybe it's affecting me. Everything is moving so fast, and I'm acting like it doesn't matter—but it does.
The car stopped. My stomach tightened. I felt like I was about to give a boring lecture to a room full of strangers. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to appear calm, even though I wasn't.
"We're here," Mom said.
I turned to her. "Do I really need to do this? It doesn't feel right."
She looked at me, determined. "Yes. This is necessary. And I've given you someone on behalf of your father. That can't be undone."
I didn't say anything. I just followed her.
Inside, the place was full—some people looked completely fine, others… not so much. It hit me then. I was one of them. Maybe worse.
"Wait here," Mom said, then walked away.
I hate being left alone in crowded places. My hands started rubbing together—nervously. It was summer. Who even does that in the heat?
I took a step back, trying to escape the crowd without looking. That's when someone bumped into me. I twisted my ankle, and I almost fell—
But someone caught me.
Hands around my waist. A firm hold. A heartbeat that wasn't mine.
And then I fell.
Hard.
For him.
I never believed in love at first sight. Until then.
His eyes were hypnotic. I wanted to devour them like a zombie chasing flesh. I clung to his shoulder the way a kid holds their mother's hand—safe, excited, afraid to let go.
I tried to look away from his lips, but it was impossible. I wanted to kiss him—right there, right then. Was I insane? Probably. I must've looked ridiculous. I stared at him, stunned, like a lunatic.
"If you keep staring like that," he said, smirking, "I'll kiss you. And I won't stop."
I blinked four times, trying to process it. "Huh… wh… what?"
I didn't even thank him. I just stood there, melting.
The next day, we came back home late. Thanks to me—and traffic—we missed the therapist. He had another appointment. So my first therapy session is now next Sunday.
But I can't wait that long.
I want to see him again.
Maybe he was there for therapy too? He didn't seem like he needed it, but he also looked too young to be a therapist. I'm just guessing here. Either way, I really, really hope he'll be there.
Because now?
I can't stop thinking about him.