Failed Attempt

Growing up, I felt like I was living in the heart of a buzzing beehive. I never had to do anything alone – my friends filled my days with warmth, laughter, and a sense of belonging. My social life was vibrant from the very beginning. In kindergarten, some kid would beg their mother to let them invite me over – almost every week. We would play all kinds of games and eat a ton of colorful gummy bears, sharing silly little secrets and creating fantasy worlds of all kinds. Later, at school, there was always a small crowd arguing over who got to sit next to me, or play with me during breaks.

By the time I reached high school, those friendships had only grown stronger, tighter, and fuller. We spent nearly all of our waking hours together: suffering through boring classes, exchanging notes in secret, shoving our desks closer during lunchtime so we could share our food and joke around, and we signed up for after-school club activities just for the sake of spending even more time together. I signed up for a bunch of clubs – film, sports, theater – because I didn’t want to miss out on anything. I wanted to experience it all. I wanted to be a part of it all. We even made plans for outside of school. I could almost say we went from school to karaoke boxes as if it were part of our daily routine. We sang pop songs at the top of our lungs, sometimes off-key and cracking, our cheeks glowing red from all the soda and the constant laughter at each other’s terrible performances. Time at home, alone, was almost nonexistent. It was an  exhausting lifestyle, but I loved every second of those years. It might sound silly now, but at the time, I was super happy, because I knew that people needed me, and I was convinced that this joyful period of close friendships would last forever. We would keep laughing until our mouths could laugh no more, sharing thousands of adventures, and just stay by each other’s side as long as the sun rose each morning.

And then, in our final year of high school, things took an unexpected turn. Suddenly, everyone around me was obsessed with dating and looking their best for potential boyfriends and girlfriends. My friends traded our karaoke nights for gym workouts and cut out soda because apparently it was packed with carbs and made their stomachs puff up like balloons, so they couldn’t even squeeze into their pants properly—a tragedy, it seemed.

I told myself I didn’t care about any of this bullshit, but since everyone else seemed so absorbed, I decided to give it a go. I didn’t have anyone to hang out with anymore, anyway. This romance thing might even turn out to be fun.

That’s when Sakaki, my handsome friend from film club, first gave me goosebumps. He was tall, with a sporty build, effortlessly attractive, a warm smile radiating from his face all the time, drawing people toward him—like a magnet pulling in pins and random bits of metal. His hands were huge, like he could carry the whole universe in them. I had admired him for years, of course, but it wasn’t until my decision to give this dating mania a chance, that I began to see him in a different light. At first, I only thought of him as my movie pal, since our friendship had deepened over the years thanks to our frequent cinema trips, checking off the list of recommended movies from our very first film club session. But later on, he stirred feelings I had never felt before. The first time I realized I probably had a thing for him was when we were talking about a movie in the schoolyard, sitting side by side on a bench, our shoulders gently touching. He looked deep into my eyes as he shared his opinion about the film. All at once, I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, making me want to sink into the bench and disappear until he forgot all about me, so he wouldn’t see the redness of my face. And in that instant, I knew—that was it. The love everyone talked about, all the books I had read, all the movies I had watched—it was exactly like this.

One spring afternoon, we had plans to watch a movie for film club—just the two of us this time. I told myself it was the perfect moment for romance to spark. The theater room was dim, giving it the perfect romantic ambience, and my heart was pounding so loudly I thought he might even hear it over the sounds of the film. Gaining courage from the room’s darkness, I hesitantly reached out my hand toward his, and to my surprise and relief, he didn’t pull away. He let my tiny hand rest on his, and after a few seconds, he even took it and began caressing my palm with his beautiful, long fingers. It felt magical—feeling so much from something as small as two hands touching. My heart kept beating wildly throughout the entire movie; I could barely focus on the screen. I remember that a week later, when we were asked about the film during club, I couldn’t even recall anything beyond the basic, “It was an interesting movie." The club members all looked at me like I was a total airhead. 

The credits rolled and the lights came on. Sakaki slipped his hand quickly out of mine, stood up, and said goodbye without even looking at me directly. He walked away as if nothing had happened at all, with his long arms waving around his body as he got farther and farther away from me, disappearing through the small door at the right corner of the red-carpeted cinema room. I was confused, looking as if I had just seen a ghost.

The very next day, though, his behavior shifted again. He lingered around me at school, offering small acts of kindness all day, always finding excuses to be near me. When it was time for film club, he took my hand and drew me into an empty classroom. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around me. His hug felt warm and intense, pressing me close, and before I could even think, his lips were already brushing mine. It was soft and smooth, and my chest felt ready to explode. Then, just as quickly, he pulled away, ran a hand through his hair and began talking about random things, as if nothing had just happened between us—just like at the cinema. After the club meeting, he walked me home and promised to come pick me up the next morning, leaving me both dizzy and elated.

For about a month, this quiet thing between us continued. He greeted me in the mornings, walked me home, kissed me in hidden corners when the school grew quiet after compulsory classes were over. I hardly noticed that my friends were all absorbed in their own little romances, and that we didn’t spend time together at all. I was too enthralled by my own little love story, feeling like the protagonist of some classic romance novel. I even started to actually think that this romantic love thing might not be such a bad idea after all.

Then, without warning, my love story came to an abrupt end. He didn’t come for me one morning. I walked to school, hoping he was sick at home or had some other reasonable excuse, but when I stepped inside the building, I saw him standing there at the shoe racks, chatting with his friends. When I approached, he walked past me as if I weren’t even there. The past month—our closeness, the butterflies—it was all gone. I started to think that it might have all been just the product of my vivid imagination, and that I might have a serious mental problem. In my final desperation, I thought that at least at film club I could talk to him. That day, the head of the club announced that Sakaki wasn’t coming to join us anymore.

For a while, I became a regular in the girls’ bathroom on the second floor, locking myself in a bathroom stall so I could cry in peace whenever the weight of his absence pressed too hard. I saw him every day, surrounded by his friends, laughing, carefree – and each time, it was like a blade twisting my ribs. How could he pretend I didn’t exist when we had been so close not so long ago?

This was the story of my first attempt at love, ending in heartbreak. I promised myself then that I’d never fall in love again. I’d rather focus on my studies and my friends, spending as much time with them as possible, and I began to believe that the value of friendships—and love beyond romantic love—was far more important than some stupid chemical reaction in your brain triggered by touches, kisses, and empty promises.

But without Sakaki's company, I soon had to realize that my friends didn’t see the world of romantic love as tragic as I did, and they’d rather spend their time with their significant other than with their friends.