The Habit of You

I have been in love with him for 5 years (or 8? I can't really tell.)

You can't guess it. Nobody can. My best friend had to name the whole class before I very, very reluctantly told her myself. That's how good I am at hiding it. But inside? I am the biggest softie for him. Crushes are all about heart-racing, nerve-wracking butterflies and all, but what if this effect never goes away? What if you're always left reeling by just one glance, one mention, one smile?

That's how bad it is for me. I had hoped this was just a phase. A physical attraction. Hormones and all that. But it's not, okay? What hormones are pesky enough to stay in your system for five years and God knows how many more? Truly a biological marvel, isn't it?

Turns out, I'm not the only one. A lot of girls have liked him. It's not like he's some dream come true book boyfriend or the greenest flag ever (okay maybe he is), he's just him. And that's his best feature. He's effortlessly himself in a manner all girls can't help but like.

We've been in the same class since sixth grade. When tenth grade ended, I was worried he'd opt for a different stream and our sections would change. Did they? Nope. Fourteen-year-old me would've thought it's fate and smiled dreamily to herself. Now I think it's the universe and one of its very unfunny pranks on me.

He was my bench mate in fourth grade, when I was new in school. He taught me some silly game only boys in our class used to play, and I used to beat him quite a few times. It was fun, like making a new friend in the playground only to never see them again. The year ended. The world shut down. Covid-19 took over. And while there hadn't been real attraction because I was too stupid to understand one, there was something.

Three years passed, came eighth grade, and suddenly everyone liked everyone else. Puberty had hit everyone like a train, but he was pretty much the same as I remembered. The difference was that he had a girlfriend.

It was absurd somehow. Like saying two plus two equals five. The equation just didn't match. The odds didn't either.

A small part of me still thought, stupidly, that it was just some rumour. But I still hadn't been 'in love' with him yet.

My best friend told me he used to sit in front of her and randomly turn around to narrow his eyes at her. It was a stupid detail, just a passing remark in conversation. But I couldn't let it go. Couldn't help but compare it to all his other little quirks which brought a smile to my face.

And then I suddenly liked him.

My eyes would follow wherever he went, whoever he sat with, whatever he laughed at. I'd narrow my eyes whenever they caught his gaze, and he'd narrow them back. A little game between us, an unspoken conversation, I used to think.

He'd ask me if I had spare change because he wanted ice cream after school, and I always carried some. For him. I remember one of my upper canines was already kind of raised and I really hoped the other one would grow out the same way, because his upper canines sat higher up than the rest too. I was proud of my slightly crooked teeth because they made my smile look like his.

I had once logged into his account for some English olympiad our school conducted, just curious to see his score. For some reason I'd still get notifications even after logging out. I wasn't complaining though. It gave me another excuse to text him, to hear him say the next day, amused, "It could've been anyone in the whole world, why you?" I'd roll my eyes and pretend it was fate. It wasn't me, nope. Not at all.

And you can't blame a girl for hoping, alright? I've had actual staring contests with him across the classroom and proudly won. He's the only guy who complimented my new glasses, the only one who asked if everything was alright after I'd broken down in class because my dad had suffered a stroke. Maybe because he understood. He just had the ability to say the right things at the right time.

But I'm also well aware of how much he loves his girlfriend.

I heard there had been some drama involving her and another guy in tenth grade, but I'm not surprised they didn't break up over it. She's funny, prettier than most girls in our grade, and rich. What else would a guy want?

In ninth grade, I heard him call her "his saviour" in front of me while my best friend shot me an apologetic smile. I smiled back, pretending it was okay. Pretending I still had a chance.

I had no chance.

By tenth grade, I convinced myself to hate him. Not because he was worth hating, but because I didn't deserve this — pining like a lovesick fool after someone who spared me no more than a glance. Maybe it was bitterness, but mostly it was my self-respect warring with that infatuation. I stopped lending him money for ice cream because I realised it was convenient for him, not special. He did try the usual guilt tripping. "This is your idea of friendship? Of love?" he said once. (And then you say I'm hopeless.)

I finally moved on.

(Spoiler alert: I didn't.)

I remember once our whole class was returning from the art room when suddenly the corridor lights went out. It was monsoon, the floors were wet from leakage and we were hooligans. We laughed so hard when a guy's shouts turned into winces as he slipped. It became difficult climbing the stairs back to class, for our stomachs hurt from laughing.

Nobody knew who did it except me. I'd seen him flick the lights off, but I wasn't about to snitch. When the teacher demanded the culprit, he'd come forward himself.

That is one of my fondest memories of tenth grade.

I remember everything about him in this horribly embarrassing way. Conversations. Small details. Snippets overheard in passing. Like how he once said he'd name his daughter Arya someday. Or how during a conversation in ninth grade he asked me my birthday and, for some godforsaken reason, I replied with his.

He stared at me for a second, completely flabbergasted.

This is not the first time I've said unhinged things in front of him. Somehow my mouth runs free whenever I'm talking to him.

Though there was one conversation in eleventh grade where even I faltered. He asked if I had a boyfriend. For a second all that ran through my mind was, "No, because you're not mine," before I just shook my head.

He noticed the pause and laughed. "Why are you hesitating? Do you really have one?"

And I wanted to laugh because a part of me was flattered he'd think so. Think I'd have anyone that isn't him.

I barely attended school in eleventh grade, so this was one of the few real conversations we've had. Still, I found myself hoping he'd pass despite how little he studied.

Now we're in the final year. The year we graduate.

You'd think I'd be over him by now. No. I've just gotten better at pretending.

My eyes don't follow him anymore. I don't look for excuses to sit near him. I don't lend him stupid ice cream money. But one smile, one moment is all it takes to plague my mind again.

He's tried guessing my crush before, mostly because he loves gossip, and he's nowhere near the truth. I'm fairly sure his girlfriend suspects something though. I'd seen the way she'd looked at me when he'd shared his water bottle with me on a school trip because I was thirsty. I had brushed it off, for I was sure I was going to leave the school after tenth grade. But I didn't, and now I'm too afraid to ever make a move. Not that I want to — I don't want to become just another girl added to the long list of girls who liked him. This is frankly something out of my nightmares.

Speaking of nightmares, is it normal to dream about someone you've convinced yourself you don't like? My dreams aren't even dramatic. I'm just sitting beside him in class, laughing at the jokes he cracks.

Somehow my idea of fun is just talking to him. Being his friend. Having conversations.

Is that too much to ask? Apparently it is.

Even if I were to write a book about this, it'd be filled with denial and bitter observations. Even after all this, there's no end to my story. No end to us, if that even exists.

He's someone I've known half my life, and whenever I think of school years from now, I'll think of him too.

I'd planned to record him a song, crochet him gloves, maybe confess on graduation day. But it's wishful thinking. It is digging my own grave.

So maybe all it deserves is an essay I'm too afraid to let anyone read.