Los Que Crecimos Juntos

Crescent Valley Elementary smelled like crayons, pencil shavings, and the kind of glue that stuck to your fingers for hours. Paper hearts hung from the ceiling, all uneven and lopsided, because second graders didn’t know how to cut anything straight. The room buzzed with the sound of kids trading cards and candy, the kind of chaos that made teachers sigh and smile at the same time.

June sat at her desk, legs swinging, a box of Walgreens Valentines in her lap. She’d written every name carefully, tongue poking out the side of her mouth the way her mamá said she always did when she was concentrating. But now that it was time to hand them out, her stomach felt weird. Tight. Like she’d swallowed a marble.

She wasn’t shy — not really — but she didn’t like walking up to people who didn’t talk to her much. And most of the class didn’t. She was the new girl. The one who still mixed Spanish into her sentences without meaning to. The one who wore her hair in big curls that the other girls liked to touch without asking.

She pressed her lips together and stared at the glittery heart on the top card. 

“Just go,” she whispered to herself. “Ay bendito, June, it’s not that serious.”

Before she could stand, the classroom door swung open.

Micah Carter walked in late, backpack half unzipped, curls sticking up like he’d slept on them wrong. His glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them up with the back of his hand, the way he always did. He looked around the room like he wasn’t sure he belonged in it.

June knew that feeling.

Their eyes met for half a second — just long enough for her stomach to do something strange. Not a flip. Not a spark. Just… a shift. A tiny one. Like a page turning.

Micah walked straight toward her desk.

June froze.

He stopped in front of her, holding out a dinosaur Valentine — the kind with the cheesy pun.

> “You want one of mine?” he asked.

His voice was soft, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to talk to her.

June blinked. 

“Para mí?” she whispered before she could stop herself.

Micah shrugged. 

“Yeah. You look lonely.”

Her cheeks warmed. No one had ever said it like that — not mean, not teasing. Just honest.

She reached into her box and pulled out a glittery heart with crooked handwriting.

> “Here,” she said, pushing it toward him. “Now you’re not lonely either.”

Micah smiled — a small, shy smile that made his glasses tilt again.

> “Thanks.”

He sat at the desk next to hers, even though it wasn’t his assigned seat. Their elbows almost touched. June didn’t move hers away.

Around them, the classroom kept buzzing — candy wrappers, giggles, paper hearts falling off the walls — but June didn’t hear any of it. Not really.

All she heard was the soft rustle of Micah opening her Valentine. 

All she felt was that tiny shift in her chest.

Later, she wouldn’t remember what the card said. 

She wouldn’t remember what candy he gave her. 

She wouldn’t remember the decorations or the noise or the teacher telling them to quiet down.

She would remember this:

A boy with crooked glasses. 

A dinosaur Valentine. 

A glittery heart. 

Two kids who didn’t know yet that this was the beginning of everything.

The first Valentine. 

The first look. 

The first thread in a story they would grow into together.