The Boy Who Wrote Me Poems: Chapter 1

Ink-Stained Eyes

 The first time I saw him, he was alone. Always alone.
Back corner. Head down.
Left hand curled over a soft-leather notebook as if protecting something sacred.

He didn’t wear headphones like the others. Didn’t glance at his phone. He didn’t even pretend to notice anyone. He simply wrote, pen scratching the paper like it owed him answers.

I passed him every Tuesday. It became a ritual. An unspoken tension. The kind that builds in the space between glances.

But then it changed.
Because I saw the page.

Half-torn, messy, raw.

“You look like you belong to no one.
But I’d write you into mine anyway.”

My breath caught. It wasn’t dated. It wasn’t signed.
But I knew it was about me.

He looked up—slowly—and I was paralyzed by his gaze.
Ink-stained fingers. Soft, parted lips. And those eyes—like thunderclouds just before the rain.

He smirked, just slightly, like he knew he’d caught me reading.

That was the first time I felt naked without being touched.

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