Season 1, Episode 4 of "Before She Knew My Heart"
I can't trace it back to one moment.
There was no grand realization, no dramatic heartbeat in slow motion where the world faded and she came into focus.
It wasn't like that.
It was quieter.
Gentler.
Like something I carried with me long before I had the words for it.
I didn't fall in love with Ayla all of a sudden.
I grew into it.
It was the way her shadow danced across my window every evening before she rang the bell.
The way she handed me half her lollipop without asking.
The way she cried during that animated movie about a dog — and then hugged me too tight for too long.
It was her voice.
Her laughter.
The fact that even when she was mad at me, she still saved me the last slice of cake.
I think I was already halfway in love the first time she scolded a boy in our class for teasing me.
And I completely fell the day she took my hand during a thunderstorm and whispered, "Don't worry, I'm here."
It was never one moment.
It was hundreds.
Thousands.
Stacked softly on top of each other like pages in a journal that only my heart could read.
People always ask: "When did you know?"
But how do I explain that it was in every unspoken second?
In every shared laugh, every tiny look, every time she said my name and didn't even know what it meant to me.
There was one afternoon I remember clearly.
It was during our tenth grade. We were walking home, and she was rambling about her physics practical, waving her hands in the air like she always did when she was excited.
Suddenly, she stopped.
A flower had fallen from a tree. She picked it up, tucked it behind my ear, laughed, and said, "Pretty. Now you're complete."
I laughed too.
But inside?
Something shifted.
I wanted to freeze that moment.Capture it.Keep it.
And maybe tell her everything I had kept hidden.
But I didn't.
Because every time I thought about telling her — really telling her — I imagined her stepping back. Looking at me differently. Losing that spark in her eyes when she saw me.
And I couldn't bear that.
So I folded those feelings up.
Kept them inside.
And let her walk ahead, turning back with that smile that always knocked the wind out of me.
It's strange how deeply you can love someone… silently.
I memorized her favorite chocolate, the songs she skipped in playlists, the way she hated Sundays because they made her feel like time was running out.
She never noticed I always walked on the side closer to the traffic.
Or that I gave her the umbrella and got drenched.
Or that I waited until she had eaten before I touched my food.
She never noticed because I never wanted her to.
Loving her wasn't about grand gestures.
It was about being the silence between her storms.The calm at the edge of her chaos.
One night, I wrote it all down.
Everything.
Page after page.Lines only my pillow would hear.
Then I ripped it out, folded it neatly, and put it in a box under my bed.
That box has grown heavier now.Not with paper — but with years.
Years of not saying anything.
Of watching her move through life, closer to me than anyone else, yet still not close enough.
She once asked, "Aarav, how do you know it's love?"
I wanted to say:
"It's love when you see them tired but still want to hold their weight.
It's love when their happiness feels heavier than your own.
It's love when you'd rather break alone than let them carry your pieces."
But all I said was:
"You just know."
Because sometimes the truth… is too big for words.
I don't know if she'll ever read this.
I don't know if she'll ever see the version of me that's existed behind quiet eyes and bitten lips.
But if she does...
I hope she knows I didn't fall in love with her once.
I fell a little more every single day.
And somehow, I still haven't stopped.