Chapter 1 (One and Only)
This isn’t a fan fiction.
It’s not a fairy tale either.
It’s just my ordinary engineering college story that I’ve never had the courage to share with anyone—not even my closest friends. Maybe that’s why I’m writing this here. Because it still sits heavy inside me, and I need it out.
I met him in 2022.
Back then, almost everyone still wore masks—Covid hadn’t fully left our lives yet. So, I hadn’t even seen his face. We were classmates, but strangers in a way.
One afternoon, we exchanged a glance in class. That was it. Nothing special, just an unremarkable moment. And after a few days, on my birthday, he even wished me and just shook my hand. arely a week later, he followed me on Instagram. The same evening, he sent me a reel.
At first, I planned to ignore it—just tap a reaction and move on. But something stopped me. I thought maybe he’d feel bad if I didn’t reply. So I typed a short message back.
I still regret that reply, even now, after three years.
Because that’s how it all began.
He started sending more reels, little conversations trickling in. Did you have lunch? What are you doing? How was your day? Simple, casual questions that slowly turned into a routine. I was in my second year then, still figuring myself out. And before I knew it, I started looking forward to his texts. I even started liking him, a little.
But there was always something missing.
He never spoke to me in college. Not once.
Every time I asked why, his answer was the same—“My friends will find out…they’ll tease me…I’m just shy.” Over and over.
I used to imagine what it would be like if we could talk face to face. If we could sit together in the canteen, or maybe watch a movie like normal friends did. But he never showed up. Not once.
We fought about it so many times—me asking why he’d rather hide behind his phone texting me, him insisting he just couldn’t do it any other way. I told him more than once to stop texting me if he couldn’t talk to me in person. But he never listened.
Through the second year, third year and the fourth, he kept messaging. Even when I grew cold, even when my replies shrank to single words. I think a part of me always waited—maybe he would finally walk over, look me in the eyes, and prove me wrong.
But he never did.
This February, I finally told him not to text me again. My heart felt heavy, but I knew I couldn’t keep dragging it on. He didn’t try to meet me. He didn’t try to explain. He just disappeared from my messages.
Then came the last day of college in May.
I saw him standing far across the corridor. For a second, I wanted to look at him one last time. Maybe even smile. But I didn’t. We didn’t even exchange a glance.
I walked away, telling myself this was closure.
A few weeks passed.
And then, in June, he texted me again—“I’m sorry for how everything turned out. It was my fault.”
I did what I always did. I acted cold. Pretended I didn’t care. Deep down, I think I hoped he’d finally ask to meet in person. But he didn’t. And I know he never will.
He hasn’t messaged again. I doubt he ever will.
Sometimes, I wish I could tell him the truth—that I really did like him. That all I wanted was to hear his voice, just once, without a screen between us. But even if I saw him again in this lifetime, I wouldn’t say it.
Because I know he’d never really understand.
So this is it. The story that never became a story.
The end, I guess.
