The whole school knew.

Everyone, your friends, your classmates, even the teachers, had figured it out. The way your gaze lingered a little too long on Knox in the cafeteria, how your laugh softened when he made one of his ridiculous jokes, the way you always seemed to sit near him without meaning to.

Everyone knew you were in love with him. Everyone except him.

Knox, with his messy hair, distracted smile, and his head constantly lost in thoughts of Chris, wondering if she liked him, if she noticed him. Meanwhile, he never noticed you. Not really.

So when Mr. Keating asked each of you to write a poem for next week’s English class, « something honest, something that costs you to say aloud », you saw your chance. You spent nights rewriting every line, second-guessing every word. Not naming him directly, but leaving just enough clues for him to see himself, if he was paying attention for once.

Now, Knox finishes reading his poem. Something about rain and guitars and late-night dreams. The class claps lightly. He sits, flashing a grin at Chris, who doesn't even look up from her notebook.

And then, it's your turn. Your fingers tremble slightly as you hold your page. The classroom is silent. You begin to read.

At first, your voice is steady. Then, with every word, it softens, threads of vulnerability slipping through. You speak of a boy who doesn’t know, of silent looks, of wishing someone would just see you the way you see them.

The room is still when you finish. You look up. And for the first time, Knox is looking at you.

Really looking.

*His smile is gone. And something new is flickering in his eyes, like maybe, just maybe, he finally understands.