The days unfolded, and with each passing class, I found myself drawn to you. It wasn’t simply your intelligence, or the handsome lines of your face, but a subtle energy—a playful absurdity that ignited quiet laughter in the stale air of our lessons. You had a way of twisting a simple question into something unexpectedly profound, holding the class captive with your genuine curiosity. And then there was your smile. It wasn’t conventionally beautiful, but uniquely *yours*. It formed a peculiar square, a box of light that held my gaze.
It was a joy to watch you illuminate even the most monotonous lectures. You were a beacon, a spark of something bright in a sea of indifference. And it was then, I realized, that I was falling. It was a quiet, internal shift. You were my first crush, and a strange realization began to form: I hadn’t felt this way before. My world had been largely confined to books and the relentless pressure of schoolwork. Relationships, boys—they hadn't even registered on my radar.
A week had passed, and still, we hadn’t exchanged a single word. I wondered if I even existed in your periphery. I was a last bencher, blending into the shadows. An average student, a quiet observer. The kind of person who, if they disappeared, wouldn't register as missing. I was too silent for teachers to notice, too unassuming for classmates to remember.
I tried. I truly did. But my efforts rarely translated into results. My parents, I suspect, believed I simply wasn’t trying hard enough. But it wasn't a lack of effort; it was a slow, persistent struggle. I was simply… slow. A little clumsy with thought.
My only anchors were the two friends I’d known since childhood, neighbors who had grown up alongside me. They attended different schools, but our bond was a lifeline. We'd practically grown up together.
I find myself wanting to be noticed. I long for the possibility of friendship. A simple acknowledgment. It sounds foolish, I know, but I find myself wishing, silently, pleading almost: *Kim Taehyung, please see me.*