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"Sometimes, it's not the assignment that teaches you.
It's the people you create with,
the silences filled with laughter,
and the moments when something unspoken is understood."
Dear Diary,
Group projects —
those chaotic little storms in our academic skies.
This one was for Literature.
A presentation on Dreams and Reality in Modern African Fiction.
(I already live there, I thought.
Between dreams and reality.)
Jia and I signed up as partners, of course.
Two sides of the same chaotic coin.
She brings the fire, I bring the clouds.
But when we were told to merge with another pair,
the teacher waved over two names I didn't expect.
And he was one of them.
Yes. Him.
My boy-next-door with paper stars
and careful eyes that noticed things no one else did.
"Guess the universe ships you two," Jia whispered
with a grin so knowing I almost dropped my pen.
We all met after school in the library.
The table was littered with open books,
notes half-written, pages whispering old truths.
But my heart?
It was quietly writing new ones.
He was focused.
Thoughtful.
The kind of teammate who actually cared about the topic.
He talked about dreams as resistance,
about how fiction gives people places to survive in.
I just stared for a moment.
He wasn't soft here —
he was sharp,
brilliant in a quiet way,
like a poem that only rhymes after the second read.
At one point, he handed me a page he'd underlined.
And in the margin, he'd written:
"This line reminded me of something you'd say."
My fingers trembled slightly as I read it.
I didn't ask which line.
I just smiled,
because knowing he saw me in literature
felt better than being read aloud.
Jia was the glue —
keeping us laughing,
redirecting the conversation when silence hung too long.
She teased me,
teased him,
and teased the teacher in advance —
"Hope you're ready to be amazed."
And you know what, Diary?
For the first time, I felt something new.
Not just love.
Not just dreams.
Balance.
A weaving together of my worlds.
Jia and I.
Him and I.
School and heart.
Imagination and reality.
The project was due in two days,
but something told me the story had already begun.
Not just on the page,
but in the pauses,
the looks,
the way he stayed behind to help me pack my books
even though I could've managed alone.
"You read between lines," I told him.
"Only when the writer makes it worth it," he replied,
quiet as ever, but somehow, louder than my pulse.
Till tomorrow,
Wunor 📚💖🕯️
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