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The April sky was gentle, sunlight falling like soft golden silk onto crisp white school uniforms. Banana High School nestled quietly beside a tree-lined street, peaceful as though time itself had slowed down here.
Mary, a girl with long chestnut brown hair she braided every morning, walked slowly along the hallway of class 11A1. She held a notebook carefully in her hands, filled with quotes and poems from previous lessons. Her eyes, clear as an autumn lake, carried a calm and quiet kindness that made people want to stay near.
"Good morning, Mary!" – a warm voice called from behind. It was Michael, the boy who messaged her every night. They went to the same school, but weren't close in person. Mary usually responded with polite replies, sometimes a soft expression. She knew Michael liked her, but wasn't sure what she felt herself. Everything was vague, like morning mist.
Mary turned and smiled with a slight nod. "Morning."
Michael was in class 12A1 – the top class of grade 12, along with Peter and Emily. All three were a year older than Mary, but they often saw each other in the library and had gotten familiar.
Just then, the bell rang. Students rushed into classrooms. From the end of the hallway, a figure appeared – walking quickly, soft hair flowing in the wind. It was Peter.
He was also from 12A1 – not only smart, but popular. I never really cared. Everyone looked the same to me. But maybe… not quite.
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Banana High's courtyard was always lively at noon, filled with laughter, the sound of running shoes, and random chatter. Sunlight spilled golden across the grassy field behind the school, where students ate lunch, played ball, or read. Mary sat under a crape myrtle tree, her lunchbox beside her, packed by her mother. She didn't eat right away but pulled out a thick book from her bag.
The wind rustled a few pages loose. Mary hurried to catch them, frowning and then laughing at her own clumsiness. Across the courtyard, Michael sat with some other boys from grade 12. His eyes occasionally drifted toward Mary. Just quick glances – but often, as if afraid someone might notice. On his phone, a message waited in drafts, never sent.
"Did you keep reading that book today?"
Michael stared at the words, then deleted them. He sighed, resting his chin on his hand. Even after three years at the same school, he'd barely spoken to Mary beyond five sentences. But he knew her well – how she preferred books over snacks, how she liked walking in the rain just to hear the wind, how she always carried a black pen. He knew – just not from her directly.
Elsewhere, Emily and Peter were sitting together, each with their own lunch. Peter was telling a funny story, making Emily laugh brightly. Her smile was always warm – like there was sunshine in her heart every day. But the way she looked at Peter was different – tender, longing, and heartbreakingly fragile.
"Do you think she knows?" Emily asked softly, spinning the cap of her milk carton.
Peter looked surprised. "Who?"
"Mary. About Michael. It's so obvious he likes her."
Peter gave a faint smile. "Not sure. Mary doesn't seem like the type to notice that stuff."
Emily nodded, but something inside her ached – a quiet, nameless sting. She understood what it felt like to love someone silently – clear in every heartbeat, every stolen glance, yet too afraid to take a step forward.
Mary ate a few bites, then returned to her book. Her eyes flicked up – and caught Peter looking at her. Just a brief glance – but enough to make her heart skip. She turned away quickly, telling herself it was just her imagination. Still, that warm, hazy feeling lingered in her chest the whole afternoon.
---
That afternoon, rain came suddenly just as the bell rang. Students rushed out of school, some with umbrellas, others using their bags as cover. Mary hadn't brought an umbrella, so she waited under the eaves of the hallway.
"Not heading home?" – a voice beside her. It was Peter.
Mary startled. "Ah… I'm waiting for the rain to stop. I forgot my umbrella."
Peter watched the rain for a moment, then offered his. "Want to share? I'm heading the same way."
Mary hesitated. Not because she was shy, but because… it was so unexpected. She'd seen Peter sharing his umbrella with Emily before, seen him laughing and chatting with everyone. She never imagined herself in that spot.
"You don't mind?" – Peter asked again, gently.
Mary shook her head, stepping beside him. They walked slowly along the wet brick path, the sound of raindrops tapping the umbrella like a quiet symphony for just the two of them.
Mary didn't speak the entire way, and Peter seemed in no rush to break the silence. Only when they reached the intersection near her home did he say:
"You write beautifully. I read your piece on the club board the other day."
Mary looked surprised. "You read it?"
"Yeah. There was one line I still remember: 'Some things don't need to be named, yet they still make hearts tremble.'"
Mary smiled, cheeks flushed. "I didn't think anyone would notice."
Peter looked at her. "I noticed."
Mary's heart raced. She didn't know how to respond, couldn't meet his eyes. Luckily, they reached her corner just then. She bowed slightly, thanked him, and ran inside. Peter stood there a moment before turning back.
That night, Mary couldn't sleep early. She kept rolling in bed, replaying every word, every second in the rain, every look.
Elsewhere, Michael sat staring at his phone, fingers typing and deleting over and over.
"Did you get wet on the way home? It rained a lot."
He never sent it.
---
That evening in Mary's small room, her desk lamp glowed gently over a half-written page. She rested her chin on her hand, eyes gazing out the window at the twinkling streetlights in the soft April night. Crickets hadn't started yet, but the breeze already carried the scent of summer coming near.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Michael:
"Did you get wet on the way home? I saw the rain was heavy after school."
Mary read it and tilted her head. She didn't reply right away. She was used to messages like this from Michael – never intrusive, always kind. Though not close, she could feel his quiet sincerity. But that was all. Mary had never wanted to go further with anyone, and with Michael, the line was always clear.
She typed a reply: "It's okay. Someone lent me an umbrella."
Michael read it and smiled faintly. He guessed who it was. Peter.
In 12A1, Michael sat one row behind Peter. They weren't close, but often worked together in study groups or school events. Michael knew Peter was popular – smart, funny, well-liked. And he knew – Peter could walk into Mary's heart more easily than anyone else.
That night, Michael opened a small notebook – the place where he kept feelings he couldn't send. He wrote:
"Some people, we can only watch from afar. Not because they're too high, or we're too low, but because their light doesn't belong to us."
Meanwhile, Peter sat at his desk, chin in hand, unable to focus on homework. He remembered that moment in the rain – when Mary looked up at him. Her eyes had truly moved him.
"She's different… not like the others I've met." – Peter whispered, then smiled to himself.
Lofi music played softly from his Bluetooth speaker. He texted Emily: "Hey, did you finish the group presentation?"
Emily replied quickly: "Yep. I even added a few intro lines, I'll give them to you tomorrow."
Peter responded: "Thanks. You're really thoughtful."
That message made Emily smile softly. She turned off the light and lay down, but her eyes stayed open. She never hoped for too much from Peter – just being able to talk and help him now and then was enough.
The next morning, Mary arrived at school earlier than usual. She brought her favorite black pen and a notebook containing an essay for her homeroom teacher. On the second-floor hallway, Peter stood looking down at the courtyard. Seeing Mary, he raised a hand in greeting:
"Morning. You're early today."
Mary smiled and walked up the stairs. "Yeah, I wanted to hand in my essay early."
Peter nodded. "Is it the one about 'Someone you'll always remember'? I bet it's amazing."
Mary looked surprised. "How do you know?"
"Because you always write with feeling. And feelings are real."
She blushed, heart fluttering. His words were like a breeze passing through her chest, making her breath catch. They stood there a moment, wind brushing gently through their hair. Neither spoke, but the silence felt oddly familiar.
From a hallway farther off, Emily saw them. She stood still, then turned away. Her eyes didn't show sadness, but deep inside, something quietly faded. She didn't blame anyone – loving someone had never been a crime. It's just… sometimes, what you want to keep forever ends up belonging to someone else.
---
The weekend arrived, bringing a slower, quieter rhythm. Mary woke up earlier than usual – not for tests or classes, but because she wanted to walk to a nearby bookstore. She liked the feeling of strolling under tree-lined sidewalks, hearing her soft-soled shoes tap the pavement, and breathing in the scent of morning sun.
She carried a cloth bag with a list of books – not for studying, but for reading freely, for lifting her spirits. She walked slowly, sometimes stopping to admire the little shops along the way. Wooden signs, jars of wildflowers on windowsills – they made her smile for no reason.
The bookstore was tucked at a street corner, cozy and warm like a piece of childhood for quiet souls. Mary pushed the door open, the chime ringing familiarly. She greeted the shop owner and headed to her usual shelf of foreign literature.
"You like Murakami too?" – a voice behind her made Mary jump a little.
She turned – it was Peter. He wore a black jacket, neatly styled hair, and held a thin book in his hand. Mary couldn't hide her surprise.
"You come here too?"
"Yeah, on weekends. I like the smell of old books here. And… the peaceful vibe that's hard to find elsewhere."
Mary nodded. They stood side by side at the shelf, each holding a book, though their eyes weren't fully on the pages. Peter suddenly asked:
"Did you write anything new yesterday?"
Mary smiled. "Yes. But I haven't shown it to anyone yet."
"Can I read it?" – his eyes were gentle.
She hesitated, then slowly took out a small notebook from her bag and handed it to him. Peter flipped through a few lines. He didn't say much, just nodded and returned it.
"It's beautiful. But… kind of sad."
Mary bit her lip. "I think beautiful things are often sad."
Peter paused. "Maybe we feel sad because they're beautiful, and we don't want to lose them. But if we live in that beauty, maybe the sadness becomes part of a precious memory."
They fell silent again. Outside, the sun climbed higher. Mary was about to leave when Peter said:
"There's a small café nearby with great apple pie. Want to check it out?"
Mary hesitated, but his eyes—
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