Two Years Sitting Next to Someone You Never Told

Two years. They sit next to each other every class, walk out together, laugh about assignments. Everything looks ordinary — except his heart.

At night, Khánh opens Zalo and types the name into search. The profile appears. His hand stops. It's not that he doesn't know what to say — his thumb just won't press send. This is the dozenth time. He closes the app. Still remembers every character in that name.

After class they walk out together toward the elevator. His heart is racing, but all he talks about is homework. At the intersection they separate — they turn left. He stands there one extra second, not sure why. Just not ready to walk away yet.

One afternoon his classmate leaves before him. He scolds himself: just say it, how hard can it be. But it is hard. Not because he's afraid of being turned down — but because if he says something and gets a no, the maybe disappears. So he stays quiet. One more day.

It's not the rejection he's afraid of. It's losing the maybe.

How many people are holding their silence not out of cowardice, but because the possibility feels more precious than certainty?