What I Thought Was Just a Thought

I was the second child in the family, and I’ve always had a shy personality. But once I got to know someone well, I became the complete opposite—loud, energetic, and always full of excitement. This story begins when I was 12, in my final year of primary school. I studied in a Chinese primary school, where the environment was intense. Students were expected to excel, and the workload was heavy. Starting from Standard 4 (age 10), classes were reshuffled every year based on academic performance.

I had always been placed in the second-best class from Standard 1 all the way through to Standard 6, despite having a weak foundation in Chinese. My parents were English-educated and couldn’t help me much with the language. Before my final year, I actually placed last in the second class. Technically, I should’ve been moved down to the third class. But because I was strong in other subjects, the teacher made a controversial decision to retain me and instead moved three students who ranked just above me.

That didn’t sit well with many classmates. But I had a few close friends, most of us tall boys, who were seated at the back of the class due to our height. Every year, during the first day back, the teacher would pair students into boy-girl pairs based on height. That year, a few students moved from the first class to ours, including a girl named Lyn, who was among the tallest girls—and also happened to be the crush of one of my best friends, Gareth.

So we, the tall boys, subtly manipulated our standing positions to help Gareth get paired with Lyn. Jun and I teased him, smiling as we waited for the pairing. But fate had a twist—the teacher decided to manually assign Lyn to sit with me instead. She believed Lyn, who came from the top class, might be a positive influence on me—especially in Mandarin, a subject I was hopeless at in her eyes.

I felt bad for Gareth, but it quickly became clear that Lyn wasn’t interested in him at this period of time. We ended up sitting together. That year was a blur of internal struggle for me. My home life wasn’t the most nurturing. My elder cousin was a high-achieving girl who excelled in academics, piano, swimming, and badminton. Naturally, I was always compared to her—negatively. I was never praised, only reminded that others were better.

During Chinese New Year, relatives bombarded me with mockery, and my parents ridiculed me, even joking about not knowing what was “wrong” with me. The running joke that I was picked from a rubbish bin stung, especially since I looked different—darker skin, less accomplished, always second-best. I sank into a dark place. I even entertained thoughts of running away, or worse. I felt like no one cared.

Back in school, I stopped paying attention in class and would often stare out the window, softly singing Westlife songs to myself. That’s when Lyn turned to me and said, “You sing really well.” That praise—it hit differently. It felt genuine. Like the first real recognition I’d ever received. I didn’t even know how to respond. From that point on, we grew closer.

Throughout that final year, we became good friends. At the end of primary school, we were both aiming to attend the same secondary school. But fate intervened again—we were placed into different schools.

However, my parents appealed, citing that my brother already attended my school of choice, and the one I was assigned to was too far. The appeal succeeded. On the first day of orientation, I scanned the crowd, feeling empty. Then I saw a familiar car—hers. It was a unique model at the time, unmistakable. My heart skipped. I didn’t know why, but seeing her brought joy.

Lyn had also been reassigned to my new school. She got into the top class; I remained in the second. She joined the prefect board. Inspired by her, I tried too—and got in. Slowly, we became close again through prefect activities.

By Form 2, our bond deepened. I realized my feelings for her weren’t just as friends. But I was afraid. She was my friend, and I couldn’t risk losing that. At 15, a senior named Richard—a good-looking prefect—asked me to deliver a bouquet of flowers to her. I did. A few days later, he invited her to a prom-like event, and she, unsure about him, asked for my opinion. I stayed silent. She then invited me to join them by handing me a ticket for the event, so I did... only to find myself seated at a separate table, watching the two of them enjoy the night together.

They didn’t last long. Later, when another boy from a different class began stalking her, she asked me to pretend to be her boyfriend for a while. I agreed, and eventually, the stalker stopped. But nothing changed between us.

Then came Form 4, when Lyn and Gareth suddenly hit it off. One afternoon, they were spotted being very affectionate, and our friend Cass deliberately tried to block me from seeing them from the canteen. Curious, I looked—and saw. I was happy for Gareth… but not completely.

They too broke up eventually. I saw that as a chance, tried different approaches—being nicer, colder, more distant, cooler. But I knew she didn’t notice the changes in me. That’s when I realized something painful: I thought I had been running in a marathon, competing for her heart… only to discover I was never in the race. I was just one of the organizers, helping others reach the finish line.

Despite everything, we both continued rising in the prefect board. In Form 5, Lyn became Head Prefect. Against all odds, I became Assistant Head. We were both proud, and for a while, it felt like we were on top of the world together.

One moment I’ll never forget was during a leadership training camp. We were doing a night exercise, blindfolded, navigating a path in complete darkness. She was scared, and without a word, she reached for my hand—and held it tightly. That feeling—her hand in mine, firm and trembling—etched itself into my memory like a permanent scar. It wasn’t romantic, but it was powerful. It meant something, at least to me.

But as we approached the end of our prefect journey, the cracks began to show. We had to nominate and select our successors. I was deeply invested in choosing leaders with integrity and character. She had different priorities. Our opinions clashed. And one day, she said something that hurt me more than I expected: “Why don’t you choose your role’s candidates, and I’ll choose mine?”

It stung—like I was just a colleague, not someone she trusted. I responded immaturely, refusing to carry out some tasks she assigned. We slowly stopped talking. Neither of us made a move to repair the bond.

School came to an end. We sat on opposite ends of the same journey. I wanted to apologize properly, to tell her everything. But I didn’t. Instead, I wrote an email—part apology, part confession. I poured everything into it.

She replied:
"Let’s just stay as friends."

And that was it.
What I thought was something…
was just a thought.