Ch 6: In my league.

There are moments in life when we meet someone who feels like a reflection of ourselves—someone who, in many ways, seems to exist in the same league as us.

She was that person for me.

I genuinely liked her, but not in the way I had imagined liking someone. It wasn't an idealized, fairy-tale crush. Instead, it felt like an undeniable connection—like I was getting along with a version of myself in a mirrored dimension.

She arrived as a transfer student from a nearby school, drawn to ours because of its reputation for care and academic excellence. From the moment she stepped into the classroom, there was something different about her.

She was shy. Silent. Reserved.

She rarely spoke to anyone and always sat at the last bench. Despite being good at her studies, she struggled with communication.

In more ways than one, she was just like me.

But I could tell, just by looking into her eyes, that there was more to her than she let on. She wasn't simply introverted—she was holding something back.

A secret, perhaps.

She had this uncanny way of observing everything around her, carefully listening to every conversation. It was almost like she was a spy in disguise, straight out of a secret agent movie. But beyond the mystery, there was a quiet sadness in her eyes. A story she wasn't telling.

And then, one day, I found out what it was.

It happened during one of our English classes.

Our teacher was discussing a passage about parents and the roles fathers play in a family. One by one, she asked students to talk about their fathers—what they did, how they supported the household.

I happened to glance at her in that moment, and I saw it.

Her eyes froze.

It wasn't fear. It wasn't discomfort. It was a silent, desperate plea.

Save me from this question.

But the teacher still asked.

And with a steady but quiet voice, she answered:

"My father passed away last year from a heart attack. Now, I live with my mother at my grandparents' house."

The classroom fell silent.

I felt something break inside me.

I had never experienced the loss of a parent, but the thought of it alone was enough to shake me. She was only a teenager—how did she find the strength to carry on?

Suddenly, everything about her made sense. The quietness. The isolation. The distant, observant nature.

It wasn't mystery. It was grief.

That revelation changed something in me. I didn't know if my feelings for her were romantic or just sympathy, but I knew one thing for sure—I admired her. She had endured so much. Not only had she lost her father, but she had also changed schools, sat for exams, and adjusted to an entirely new life, all within a year.

She was strong.

And that strength, combined with her silent and introverted nature, made me more and more curious about her.

I remember the first time we really spoke.

It was during a group project. By some twist of fate, we were assigned to the same team, along with a few other students. And as we worked together, something strange happened.

It felt like shy girl meets shy boy.

There were no forced conversations, no unnecessary small talk. We understood each other in a way only introverts could.

Slowly, through those small interactions, we became friends.

I found myself admiring everything about her—the way she spoke, the way she carried herself with quiet confidence, the way she kept her life simple and humble. She wasn't loud or attention-seeking. She was just herself.

And I liked that.

As the school year came to an end, I caught myself daydreaming about her. I didn't know what it meant. Maybe I liked her. Maybe I just felt drawn to her because she reminded me of myself. Either way, she was different from the others, and that alone was enough.

Then, just as suddenly as she had arrived, she was gone.

She told us she was changing schools again, but I never knew if it was true.

It was the last day of our final exams, and as she walked out of the classroom for the last time, I felt a strange emptiness settle in.

I didn't realize it immediately, but later that day, a friend told me that she had left something for me.

A piece of paper.

At first, I didn't think much of it. But when I got home and finally opened it, I saw what was written inside.

A number.

Her number.

For a long time, I just stared at it.

Was this really hers? Did she want me to call? Did she want to stay in touch?

A thousand thoughts ran through my mind. But in the end, I never dialed it.

Maybe I was scared. Maybe I was overthinking. Or maybe I just knew, deep down, that this was how our story was meant to end.

A connection that was never meant to last—just a fleeting moment in time, a reflection in a mirror that eventually fades.

But even now, I sometimes wonder…

What if I had called?