Her eyes went wide. She was shocked — her jaw hung open like she couldn't believe what she'd just heard. Without a word, she spun around and ran to her friends, whispering frantically. They huddled together, glancing back at me with a mix of confusion and surprise. I could feel my heart start to pound.
I panicked.
"I-It was just a joke!" I called out, forcing a nervous laugh. "No need to get serious over it."
She turned, raising an eyebrow. "Huh. A joke, huh?"
"Yes," I replied quickly, trying to sound confident, but my voice cracked a little.
Ever since that moment, something shifted. I stopped getting too comfortable around her. I hid behind teasing and sarcasm, using it like armor — anything to keep my feelings from spilling out like a broken pipeline under pressure. I couldn't let her see just how much I actually meant what I said... even if it was "just a joke."
Time passed. The sports fest arrived. She was part of the volleyball team, and I watched her from the bleachers. She moved like she belonged there — quick, focused, strong. Every serve, every dive... she was good. And I couldn't take my eyes off her.
Then came the mass demo. We danced as a class, our movements (mostly) in sync. It was chaotic but fun. We ended up placing second — not bad, but not what we hoped for. Still, it felt like a small moment we shared, even if we didn't speak much.
One night, I went home and opened a mobile game to unwind. To my surprise, I saw her IGN online. Without thinking, I sent her a friend request. She accepted. We played together. We won a match, laughed at our victory, and then lost the next one. I don't know why, but even losing felt better with her on the team.
Then came the exams. I remember feeling drained, but one afternoon, she came up to me smiling and pulled out her test paper.
"Look," she said, holding it up. A perfect score — in a subject she wasn't even one of the top scorers in. She was proud of it — really proud.
She even took a photo and sent it to her mom right there. I was surprised, honestly. And happy. Like genuinely proud of her, even though it had nothing to do with me.
Grade 9 came to an end. Almost everyone earned high honors — including her. She just barely made it in, the last name called. But when they said it, she lit up. And I smiled, knowing she earned it in her own way.
Then came the Moving Up Ceremony. It wasn't a graduation, but it felt just as emotional. The venue was filled with classmates, parents, and teachers — and the air carried a quiet kind of weight. As the names were called, dramatic music played in the background, swelling with every step taken toward the stage. It made everything feel... bigger. Like the end of something we'd never get back.
Afterward, I went to a restaurant with my mom. We were just about to eat when, by chance, we bumped into Mae. She greeted my mother with that familiar warmth, and I greeted hers in return.
Then she turned to me and said, "You should come to the beach hangout. The whole class will be there — even our adviser's joining."
I blinked, caught off guard. "I… I can't. Might get cramps," I said, trying to sound playful.
Truth was, I didn't know how to act around her anymore.
So I focused on myself. I started working out, watching what I ate. I lost some weight, built up a bit of muscle — nothing crazy, but enough to feel like I was changing.
And then Grade 10 arrived — my final year with Mae.
But nothing about it turned out the way I expected.
To be continued...