James walked toward his desk at the back of the classroom, trying his best to act normal. The room was so quiet that every footstep seemed ridiculously loud against the floor. He became painfully aware of every movement his body made, from the way his shoes struck the ground to the slight rustle of his uniform as he walked.
Why does it sound so loud?
His palms were already beginning to sweat.
By the time he reached his desk, his legs felt strangely weak, and for one terrifying moment, James seriously considered turning around, walking straight back out of the classroom, and pretending none of this had ever happened.
Maybe tomorrow.
That thought came so naturally that he almost listened to it.
Then he shook his head.
No.
Today.
He had already spent four years telling himself there would be a better time. Four years of watching Cynthia from a distance, four years of finding excuses not to approach her, and four years of promising himself that he would confess eventually.
If he backed out now, there was a good chance he would keep doing it forever.
James clenched his fists beneath the desk.
No.
He wasn't running away this time.
He had already come this far.
Taking one more step shouldn't be impossible.
With that thought, James slowly reached into his bag. His fingers brushed against something soft, and his heart immediately began pounding harder.
The roses he had taken them from his mother's garden that morning.
Sorry, Mom.
He had stood there for far too long, staring at the flowers and debating which ones looked best. He had nearly walked away several times, convinced that bringing flowers would be too obvious, too embarrassing, or simply too much.
In the end, he had picked the roses anyway.
Sorry again, Mom.
James carefully pulled the small bouquet from his bag and looked down at it.
For a second, he wondered if this was really a good idea.Then he remembered all those years of silently liking her.
Too late to chicken out now.
He took another deep breath, gripping the roses a little tighter before forcing himself to move.
One step.
Then another.
Cynthia was only a few desks away, but somehow the distance felt enormous.
His heart hammered against his chest with every step. It was beating so loudly that James became genuinely convinced she must be able to hear it. His mouth had gone dry, and despite all his preparation, he couldn't remember the first word he was supposed to say.
What was it again?
He had practiced this.
So many times.
Hi, Cynthia.
No, too casual.
Good morning, Cynthia.
Too formal.
Cynthia, there's something I've wanted to tell you...
That sounded like the beginning of a breakup.
Why is this so hard?
James finally reached her desk.He stopped beside her.
James's mind went completely blank.
For a few seconds, he simply stood beside her desk, the roses hanging awkwardly from his trembling hand as every carefully rehearsed word vanished from his head.
"Cynthia?"
The girl slowly looked up from her book.
A faint crease appeared between her eyebrows.
"Yes?"
James swallowed. His throat had suddenly gone dry, and the confidence he had desperately tried to gather on the walk over seemed to disappear all at once.
"I'm sorry..."
Cynthia tilted her head slightly.
"Have we... talked before?"
James's heart nearly stopped.
What?
For one horrifying moment, he genuinely thought his knees were going to give out. He had spent four years thinking about this girl, remembering every little interaction they had shared, yet she was looking at him as though he were a complete stranger.
He forced himself to remain standing.
Get a grip.
"Hey, Cynthia."
His voice trembled despite his best efforts.
"Do you have a minute?"
She stared at him for another moment, clearly confused by the strange boy standing beside her desk with a bouquet of roses.
"Um..."
Her eyes dropped briefly to the flowers before returning to his face.
"Sure."
She closed her book and placed it neatly on the desk.
"But..."
She studied him a little more carefully.
"Who are you again?"
Something inside James cracked.
Not loudly since there was no dramatic sound, no thunder in the background, and no convenient earthquake to swallow him whole.
Just a quiet, devastating realization.
She really didn't remember him.
"It's me."
James swallowed, forcing the words past the lump in his throat.
"James."
He waited for recognition to appear on her face.
It didn't.
So he continued before his courage could disappear completely.
"I've liked you for a while now."
His fingers tightened around the roses.
"I've wanted to tell you for a long time, but I never had the courage."
He lowered his eyes for a moment before bringing the flowers forward.
"I thought..."
His voice became quieter.
"Maybe I should finally tell you."
Cynthia stared at the roses.
Then she looked at James.
Something in her expression changed.
The confusion disappeared, replaced by a faint awkwardness that made James's stomach sink before she even said anything.
"Oh..."
She hesitated, her fingers nervously brushing against the edge of her book.
"James..."
He waited.
For some reason, the silence felt worse than anything she could have said.
Cynthia lowered her eyes.
"I'm sorry."
James's heart sank.
"I really appreciate that you like me."
She paused as though carefully choosing her words.
"But..."
She looked back at him.
"I don't feel the same way."
Silence settled over the classroom.
James stared at her.
For several seconds, his brain simply refused to process what he had heard.
She rejected me.
The thought finally surfaced.
She actually rejected me.
All those years of secretly liking her. All those nights imagining what it would be like to finally confess. All the courage it had taken to walk across the classroom with those stupid roses in his hand.
And it had all ended with four words.
James felt something tighten painfully in his chest.
He wanted to look away.
He wanted to disappear.
More than anything, he wanted to run.
Instead, he forced the corners of his mouth upward.A smile or at least, something that was supposed to resemble one.
It was probably the ugliest smile he had ever made.
His lips trembled, his cheeks were stiff, and his eyes looked dangerously close to tears. He probably looked less like someone gracefully accepting rejection and more like someone desperately trying not to cry in front of the entire world.
"Ah..."
James gave a small, broken laugh.
"I see."
He nodded as though everything was perfectly fine.His voice cracked on the last word, and somehow, that hurt even more.
"Thanks for listening."
He slowly lowered the flowers.
His face had gone pale.The confidence he had carried all morning was completely gone.The protagonist he had imagined himself becoming had disappeared.
There was only an awkward seventeen-year-old boy standing in an empty classroom holding a bouquet of roses for a girl who barely remembered his name.
James turned around.
Every step away from her felt heavier than the last.
He had spent the entire previous night writing what he thought would be the perfect confession.
Every sentence.
Every word.
He had imagined her smiling.
Maybe crying.
Maybe accepting his flowers.
Maybe...
Maybe they would finally become a couple.
Now, those words felt like a weight pressing down on his chest.
He reached his desk and sat down.
His face looked completely defeated.
His shoulders slumped.
His eyes stared blankly at the floor.
Then something occurred to him.
The signs.
He slowly replayed them in his head.
She wasn't looking at me.
That glance across the classroom?
She had been looking at the clock behind him.
The other glance?
The window.
The ruler?
She had actually needed a ruler.
The smile?
She had simply been saying thank you.
And the classroom door?
James's expression slowly became more miserable.
She had been holding it open because her friend was walking behind him.
There had never been any secret message.
There had never been any hidden confession.
There had never been a grand romantic destiny waiting for him.
He had simply connected a hundred completely unrelated things and convinced himself they formed a love story.
James lowered his head onto his desk.
"...I'm an idiot."
---
That evening, James returned home in silence.
He barely said a word to his parents before heading upstairs. He didn't even bother eating much; the moment he entered his room, he closed the door behind him, dropped his bag beside the desk, and collapsed face-first onto his bed.
His face remained buried in his pillow.
For several minutes, he didn't move.
He simply lay there, replaying the events of the morning over and over again in his head.
The confession.
The roses.
The rejection.
And, most painfully of all, the way Cynthia had looked at him when she said she didn't even remember who he was.
James groaned into his pillow.
"Why did I do that?"
There was no answer.
Eventually, he rolled onto his back and reached for his headphones. He put them on, unlocked his phone, and opened the song he had been listening to for the past few days.
The familiar melody began playing.
James stared blankly at the ceiling.
The song was supposed to give him courage.
It was supposed to make him believe that he could finally take a chance on love.
And it had worked.
Unfortunately, it had worked far too well.
James's face twisted with frustration.
"Curse you."
He paused.
"Curse you and your stupid song."
The singer hadn't even done anything wrong, yet James somehow felt compelled to blame him for everything.
"If you hadn't written this stupid thing, I would've stayed quiet like a normal person."
He pulled the pillow over his face.
"I was perfectly happy being a coward."
The song continued playing cheerfully in his ears, completely indifferent to his suffering.
James groaned.
"You're the reason I confessed."
He tightened his grip on the pillow.
"And look where that got me."
Somewhere across the city...
Henry suddenly sneezed.
"Ah—choo!"
He rubbed his nose and frowned.
"...Who the hell is talking about me?"
He looked around his room suspiciously before shrugging it off.
He had absolutely no idea that one of his songs had just indirectly given another hopeless romantic the courage to confess—and subsequently contributed to what the boy considered the most humiliating day of his life.
Meanwhile, somewhere in Riverton, James hugged his pillow even tighter as the song continued playing through his headphones.
His first love had ended before it even began.