The Boy Who Wrote Me Poems: Chapter 2

The First Line

Wednesday. Room 302. Literature.

The seat beside mine was empty. Always was.

Until it wasn’t.

He slid into the chair like he belonged there—like he’d always belonged there. I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

He didn’t speak either. He simply opened his notebook and tore a page with slow, deliberate precision. Folded it once. Then again.

And then he placed it on my desk.

My fingers brushed the edge of the paper, and I felt it. The heat. The pause. The moment where time bends for two people.

I waited until class ended. Waited until the hallway emptied.

And then I opened it.

“If you looked back,
I’d kiss you like you were the last word
In every poem I’ve ever written.”

I was still. Completely.

My lips parted involuntarily.
My thighs pressed tighter beneath the desk.

It wasn’t just a poem. It was a confession.
One that licked up my spine and pooled low in my belly.

He never asked for a reply.
But I found myself writing one anyway.

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