The pandemic hit, and the world went into chaos. People were rushing to the markets, grabbing anything they could, as if they feared the end of everything. But for us, it was different. We were secluded, tucked away in our own little cave, shielded from the madness that surrounded us. The world panicked, but I, in my strange way, felt relief. I didn't have to deal with the exhaustion of pretending. I didn't have to face the social pressures that once haunted me. Just me, my parents, and the dull monotony of online classes.
Math classes became unbearable. How can anyone understand a subject when the teacher just talks, reading from the board without writing anything? It wore me out, mentally. My mind wandered, trying to find escape. So, on the weekend, my dad and I took a hike. The weather was beautiful, like something out of a dream. I found a rock to sit on, closed my eyes, and let the breeze wash over me. The peace was overwhelming. But then, the wind hit me hard, and in a split second, I was on the ground. My head collided with the earth, and everything went dark.
When I pass out, my mind doesn't let me forget. It traps me in a whirlwind of memories, memories I wish I could erase. And this time, the flashbacks were worse than ever. They pulled me back to a time in my life when I didn't know pain—the beginning of everything that would eventually break me. My love story, the one that twisted me from an ordinary boy into someone barely recognizable.
I was in eighth grade, naive, still untouched by the cruelty of life. I didn't understand sadness like I do now. There were moments when I'd cry, but nothing like the heartache I'd later experience. It was spring—March, if I recall correctly. I was sitting in math class, my brain screaming "boring," until I saw her. Pandora. We'd known each other since primary school, but we never really connected. That day, I noticed how a group of kids—two boys and a girl—teased her, making her feel small, making her feel humiliated.
I felt something stir inside me. I couldn't stand seeing her like that, so I went over to talk to her. We sat down at lunch, and from there, something changed. She made a joke, I laughed, and suddenly, everything felt so easy. It was as if we had always known each other, as if there had never been any distance. We talked about everything, and she told me how math wasn't her thing, how she was always hiding in the back of the classroom, trying not to be noticed. I reassured her, not knowing how deeply this connection would grow.
Time passed, and we became inseparable. It wasn't romantic at first. No, it was something more pure. We would study together, talk for hours, share secrets—just two people who understood each other. I wasn't thinking about love or attraction. But sometimes, like that one day during sports when she touched my leg, I felt an electric shock run through me. It was like something inside me woke up, but I didn't know what to make of it. Was it love? Or was it simply the comfort of true friendship?
One of my favorite memories of her was when we went on a walk together after a group project. We talked about school, our secrets, and the scandals that were brewing among our classmates. We walked for hours, lost in conversation, unaware of the time passing. It was pure—nothing but joy and simplicity. When it was time to part, her dad called her, but for a moment, everything felt timeless. It felt like we were in our own little world, untouched by anything else.
But life, as it often does, had other plans. As summer came, we kept in touch, texting each other constantly. I thought we were invincible, that nothing could come between us. Then she told me her family was moving to San Francisco. It hit me harder than I expected. I didn't want things to change. I didn't want to lose her, not after everything we had shared. She made me feel alive in ways I hadn't before. But as much as I tried to convince myself, I knew change was coming.
The day I saw her again, months later, in our freshman year of high school, my heart almost exploded with joy. She smiled at me, that same warm, genuine smile, and said, "I told you we'd be together in our final year." I couldn't speak. I was overwhelmed with happiness. We were back, like no time had passed. We spent more time together—talking, laughing, studying. I felt like I was finally at peace.
But then, one weekend, it all fell apart. I had been texting her constantly, worried about why she wasn't replying. When she finally responded, everything crashed. She told me that we weren't friends anymore. It tore me apart. How could she say that? I thought I had done something wrong, but I didn't know how to fix it. I spent that entire night trying to talk to her, asking for forgiveness, even though part of me knew I shouldn't have to beg. But I didn't want to be alone. I didn't want to lose the only person who had ever made me feel understood.
I apologized, again and again, even though I knew it wouldn't change anything. Every time I think about that night, I fall asleep feeling like my heart has been ripped out of my chest. I let her thoughts dictate my reality, bending myself into something I wasn't. And to this day, I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive myself for it.
And now, as I lie here, recalling everything that happened, it's like I'm trapped in a never-ending loop of pain and regret. The world outside may have moved on, but I'm stuck—still feeling the weight of those memories pressing down on me. I'll never forget her. I'll never forget the way she made me feel alive, the way she turned my world upside down. But in the end, I was just another casualty of the heart.