Almost Love (pt 2.)

Between What Was and What Might Be

The days after felt strangely lighter. Like I’d set down a weight I didn’t realize I’d been carrying. It wasn’t love; I wasn’t even sure it was infatuation anymore. Maybe it was just closure, the kind that sneaks up on you and leaves you wondering why you held on so tightly in the first place.

I caught myself smiling at random moments, his words replaying in my mind: “Yes, for a while.” It was enough to know that I hadn’t imagined it, that I hadn’t been completely invisible to him back then.

But life had a way of moving forward, and so did I.

A week later, I was pacing my room again, phone in hand, the soft whir of the fan overhead the only sound breaking the stillness. My thoughts felt louder than the quiet—spinning, churning, replaying fragments of our conversation and what it all meant. Was it just nostalgia? Or was there still something left to say?

I paused by the window, leaning against the cool frame as I stared out at the night. The moon hung low, casting its silvery glow over the world outside. I traced a finger along the glass absentmindedly, the chill biting against my skin.

His messages were still there, waiting, as if they held answers I hadn’t fully unpacked yet.

So, I did what any overthinking, mildly sentimental person would do. I scrolled up—back to the top of the chat, to the Hi! that had started it all. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I wanted to say something, anything, to keep the thread alive. But what?

Before I could stop myself, I typed: Do you ever think about the old days?

His reply came faster than I expected: Yeah, sometimes. Good times.

Good times. That was all he said. No elaboration. No nostalgia-laden monologue. Just... good times.

I bit my lip, pacing the room again, phone still clutched in my hand. My reflection in the mirror caught my eye—messy hair, tired eyes, and that telltale curve of a smile I couldn’t quite shake.

“Good times?” I muttered aloud, half-laughing at his simplicity.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” I sent, shaking my head.

His response made me stop mid-step: “What? I mean it. They were good times—because of you.”

My heart did a funny little flip at that. I sank onto the edge of my bed, suddenly too aware of the warmth creeping up my neck.

“Me? I wasn’t that interesting,” I replied, trying to play it cool.

His next message caught me off guard: “You underestimate yourself. Always have.”

---

The memory hit me then, unbidden but vivid.

It was a rainy Thursday, and I was pacing the school corridor, biting my nails to the quick. My heart was pounding, and my eyes stung with the tears I was desperately trying to blink away.

The chemistry exam had gone terribly. Not just bad—terrible. The kind of terrible where you hand in the paper knowing you didn’t finish, where every answer feels wrong, and you already hear your teacher’s judgmental tone echoing in your head.

It wasn’t just the exam. I had a strained relationship with my chemistry teacher—a mix of misunderstandings, sharp words exchanged, and an unspoken rivalry that had only made things worse.

I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing my name at the bottom of the results list. The shame, the whispers—it was suffocating.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” a soft voice called from behind me.

I turned to see a classmate—kind, gentle, and far more perceptive than I’d ever given her credit for. She took my arm and led me back to the classroom.

“Sit,” she said, her voice firm but soothing. “Breathe.”

I sank into the chair, my hands trembling as she crouched beside me. “What’s wrong?” she asked again, her eyes searching mine.

But before I could find the words, the tears came, hot and unrelenting. I shook my head, biting my lip as if that could stop the flood. I was stammering, trying to say something, anything, but all that came out was a broken, gasping, “I—failed.”

That was when he stepped in.

He’d been sitting at the far end of the class, headphones around his neck, a notebook open in front of him. I hadn’t even realized he’d been watching.

Without a word, he pulled a chair closer, his presence somehow steadying the chaos in my chest. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low and calm.

I tried to speak, but the words caught in my throat. My shoulders shook with the effort to hold it together, but the tears only came faster.

He didn’t push. He didn’t ask again. Instead, he reached out and pulled me into a hug, wrapping his arms around me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Let it out.”

And I did. I cried into his chest, the words tumbling out between sobs: “I failed. I failed.”

His hand moved in slow, soothing circles on my back. “You didn’t fail,” he said softly. “It’s one exam. One moment. It doesn’t define you.”

For what felt like hours, he just held me, letting me cry until there were no tears left. When I finally pulled back, his shirt was damp, his expression calm and steady.

“You’re stronger than this,” he said, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “And way too smart to let one bad day get to you.”

It was such a simple moment, but it stayed with me. The way he’d been there, without hesitation, without judgment. The way he’d made me feel like I wasn’t alone.

---

The memory brought a lump to my throat as I lay on my bed, staring at his message on my phone.

“You underestimate yourself. Always have.”

He’d been right—then and now.

I smiled to myself, the kind of smile that comes from a place deep inside, warm and unshakable.

“What if this wasn’t the end of the story?” I whispered to the empty room.

The thought lingered, sweet and tempting, as I closed my eyes and let the memories wash over me.