They say, “Always try something new when you can,” though I can’t remember who said it. Probably someone who never tried carving feelings into a pencil. But, as usual, I found myself in the middle of doing something completely unnecessary yet utterly important—crafting "I love you" into a pencil for the girl who occupied most of my thoughts. Tulip.
Of course, this was all Dan’s fault. Dan, the extrovert with more connections than the school’s Wi-Fi router, knew about my little secret crush, which wasn’t so secret anymore. I never really planned to give the pencil to her. It was more like a covert operation to pass the time while avoiding the unbearable boredom of studying during holidays.
Sitting at my desk, I flipped through my notebook with one hand, pretending to study, while my other hand was busy carving. It wasn’t easy. I had to be careful—one slip, and I’d be explaining to my mom why I needed bandages instead of why I was failing math. But eventually, I did it. Three tiny words on three tiny sides of a tiny pencil. I admired my work like I’d just discovered a new element for the periodic table.
The next day at school, I showed my masterpiece to Dan. Big mistake. Dan’s eyes lit up like he’d found the last piece of candy, and before I knew it, he was sprinting towards Tulip with the pencil, yelling, “Look what he made for you!”
“Damn it, Dan!” I bolted after him like I was in the Olympics, snatching the pencil back before she could see. My heart was racing, but not from the run. The thought of her seeing those words before I was ready—if I’d ever be ready—was terrifying.
Tulip and I rarely spoke, but when we did, it was usually about school stuff. But even those brief exchanges felt like little victories. I remember the first time I was seated near her best friend—let's call her Rose. I was nervous, convinced that girls were some sort of alien species, ready to pounce on any sign of awkwardness. Rose, however, turned out to be the friendliest girl I’d ever met. She had this way of talking that made you feel like you’d known her forever.
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She even told me where Tulip lived, how close their houses were, and even where their boyfriends lived. Yes, boyfriends—plural. My heart sank a little at that, but I didn’t let it show. Instead, I memorized the unofficial map she drew with her words, storing it away in case I ever needed to, I don’t know, accidentally run into Tulip.
My awkwardness around Tulip slowly melted away as the school year progressed. We talked more, especially when monthly tests loomed over us. She’d sometimes ask to borrow money during coaching classes, and I’d give it to her without a second thought—because what’s a few rupees in exchange for those brief moments of connection?
And then there was the seating arrangement in coaching class. I ended up sitting next to Ruby, another friendly girl, but not Tulip. That bugged me more than it should have. So, one day, I made a move. When the next class started, I casually slipped into the seat next to Tulip, acting like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you know what? It worked.
But as I sat there, the pencil with "I love you" still tucked away in my bag, I realized something. I had started this whole thing as a distraction, a way to escape the monotony of holiday homework. But now, sitting next to Tulip, feeling the electricity of her presence, I knew this was more than just a distraction.
What if… what if I actually gave her the pencil?
But before I could answer my own question, the bell rang, snapping me back to reality. I shoved the thought away, focusing on the lesson ahead. The pencil would have to wait—along with the answer to the question that had suddenly become the most important one of my life.
To be continued.....