He made the other boy unattractive. It was like the other day I first saw his eyes, big brown eyes, peeking through our classroom doorway. He was trying to enter inside with his steaming hot cup of coffee, I don’t know why I did ignore him at first but maybe it was because my friend Leilah was poking the hell out of my arm. I guess he has spilled a few drops on himself, I hope he didn’t burn himself so badly. The coffee left under the cup has stains on his newly bought book; he was reading “The Little Prince” then. I hadn’t ever seen that guy before, I whispered to myself, but I had said it so loud that Leilah responded, “He should be the new guy!” His curly hair covered nearly his entire face; only his eyes were seen behind his dirty glasses. It was then I first met him. My very first thought was What kind of freak reads The Little Prince in high school? “You’re reading The Little Prince?” I asked, eyeing the stained cover. He nodded, trying to rub the stain off. “Isn’t it a children's book?” I said. He looked up, unbothered. “It’s a book about grown-ups who think they know everything.” He finally met my eyes. “Kind of like you.” It was the first time I ever heard his sound. I scoffed, taken back by his sudden confidence. He didn’t even say it with malice, just pure certainty, like someone who had already figured out the rules of the world. For a moment, I wanted to challenge him to prove that I wasn’t like the others and I hadn’t lost my childhood, but the words didn’t come out of my mouth, I was wordless. He turned another page, his fingers tracing the stained edges of the book. He made me think. 

 

        I don’t remember when exactly we became friends, especially with that kind of rough start. It just happened, like the slow unfolding of a story, each stained page left new white pages behind. It wasn’t like we became friends overnight. It all started with small moments - shared peeks in class, accidental conversations in the library, and endless minutes before the bell rang… One afternoon, I found him sitting on the library floor, stretched out, a book balanced between his legs. This time, it wasn’t The Little Prince. “What are you reading now?” I asked, sitting down beside him. He turned the cover toward me - Crime and Punishment. I raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a little dramatic for a school day?” He smirked. “Says the girl who calls The Little Prince a children’s book.” I groaned while my eyes rolled to the other side. “You’re never letting that go, are you?” “Nope,” he said, flipping a page, he never forgets anything. “You deserve to suffer for your ignorance.” I poked his arm with my elbow, pretending to be offended, but he only laughed. It wasn’t a loud laugh - more like the kind that crawls out, the kind you don’t expect. Laughter always looked beautiful on him, always. He started lending me books that I would never have picked up on my own. In return, I forced him to watch movies he claimed were ‘predictable.’ It became a habit after that meeting in the library, sitting under the old oak tree behind the school garden. Drinking coffee from the vending machine even though we both agreed it tasted terrible.“Why do you always drink it if you hate it?” I asked one day, watching as he took a cautious sip. He shrugged. “Because it’s comforting. Even if it’s bad.” I considered that for a second. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard today.” “Then you haven’t read Crime and Punishment yet.” We talked about everything—books, music, the teachers we hated, the ones we admired. He had a way of making the world feel bigger, of making me notice things I had never cared about before. “You ever think about running away?” he asked once, lying on his back in the grass, hands behind his head. “Like, literally?” I said, looking up at the sky. “No, like... leaving everything behind. Starting over somewhere else. Being someone else.” I thought about it. “I don’t know. I kind of like knowing where I belong.” He hummed in response, his eyes lost in the clouds. “Yeah. Must be nice.” I didn’t understand what he meant then. But I would.  For now, though, everything felt simple and easy.  We were just two people sharing moments in a world that felt too big for both of us.  And for the first time in a long time, I was happy.

 

        It didn’t happen all at once. At first, it was just small things—missed conversations, unanswered texts, and silence when I made a joke. He started skipping our usual library sessions, brushing it off with half-hearted excuses. “You okay?” I asked one afternoon when I caught him by the school gate instead of heading to the library. “Yeah,” he said, quickly. “Just busy.” “Busy with what?” He shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Things.” That was how it started—his slow, effortless detachment from the world we had built together. Then, he stopped reading. The boy who once carried books like they were lifelines now left them forgotten at the bottom of his bag. His copy of The Little Prince—the one he used to defend so fiercely—was bent and crumpled, pages folded like he hadn’t bothered to take care of it anymore. It was just a book. But it wasn’t just a book. 

“You haven’t read in weeks,” I told him. “So?” “So?” I repeated, staring at him like I could pull out the answer from his look. “Since when do you care?” He scoffed, rubbing his face like he was tired. “God, you act like reading is the most important thing in the world.” “It was to you.” “But maybe it isn’t anymore. wasn’t that what you want?” “No! For God's sake! No!” I have cried. 

 

        The final crack came one rainy afternoon when I found him standing outside the school, his back against the wall, surrounded by people I had never seen him with before. They weren’t bad exactly—just different. Louder. Careless in a way that he had never been before. And he was laughing. Not the quiet, soft laughter I had grown used to, but sharper, something different. It didn’t sound like him. I walked up anyway, pushing past my hesitation. “Hey,” I said, searching his face for something familiar. His smile faded for just a second before he turned back to the others. “I’ll catch up with you guys.” They nodded, barely paying attention. I watched them leave before I faced him. “Where have you been?” I asked. He sighed. “Not this again.” “Yes, this again. You’ve been acting weird. You barely talk to me. You don’t even—” I gestured vaguely. “You don’t even read anymore.” “Jesus, do you hear yourself?” he snapped. “You talk about books like they’re life or death.” “Maybe they are.” My voice was shaking now, and I hated it. “They were for you. But now—now you’re just—” I exhaled sharply, frustrated. “You’re not even you anymore.” Something flickered in his eyes—just for a second. Then, just like that, it was gone.  “Maybe this is who I was all along,” he said, voice quiet but firm. And that was it. I had spent so long believing in him, believing he was someone special, someone different. But maybe I had been wrong all along. Maybe I had just imagined who he was, filling in the blanks with my hopes and expectations. And maybe that was my fault.  I stepped back, suddenly exhausted. “Okay,” I whispered.  He didn’t stop me when I turned and walked away. And I didn’t stop to look back. We have flown together to the very top, but he has left me to fall by myself. He made the other boy unattractive.