A Girl Who Loved Deeply But Had No Chance

By: Mariel R. Ubanan

Grade 12 - Sartre

I first saw Shann under the dim yellow lights of the covered court, where echoes of sneakers and laughter filled the air as we practiced for graduation. He stood quietly in the corner, reserved and silent, like a lone star in a crowded night sky. That stillness drew me in. Something about the way he carried silence felt magnetic, as if his quietness spoke louder than anyone else’s noise. In that moment, without reason or warning, I fell in love.

I wanted to ask for his Facebook that day, but shyness chained my courage. I let the chance slip, though my heart lingered with him long after I walked away.

Weeks later on Christmas night, of all nights, I found his profile. The glow of my phone screen lit up my trembling hands as I pressed “Add Friend.” Minutes stretched like hours. Then, in a burst of boldness, I confessed.

"Hi Shann, I just want to say... I like you."

The words burned as I typed them. My pulse raced, my chest felt full of fluttering wings. His reply came like a soft gust of wind.

"Oh wow, I can’t believe someone likes me... but thank you, I appreciate your feelings."

And then, almost casually, he added, "Uhm, Mae, can we hang out sometime?"

I froze, staring at the screen, then whispered to myself, “Yes, yes, yes!” But what I typed was simpler, "Yeah, sure, though I’m kind of shy."

In that instant, happiness blossomed inside me like fireworks against a December sky.

Our conversations stretched for weeks, sometimes light as laughter, sometimes tangled with mixed signals. The more we talked, the deeper I sank into him. Yet, each time he spoke about his old crush, this girl who had haunted his heart since the COVID days, I felt my chest tighten. He admired her openly, his voice laced with a longing that wasn’t mine to receive. I swallowed my jealousy, silent as a shadow. After all, how could I compete with a ghost of love he never let go?

By the time we entered Grade 11, I thought maybe things had shifted. One afternoon, he asked softly, “Mae, let’s walk home together?”

I tried to answer calmly, but inside, my heart was pounding like festival drums. “Yes, sure,” I said.

We walked side by side under the orange wash of sunset. He was quiet so quiet, but I didn’t mind. Just being near him made the world brighter. I kept stealing glances, memorizing the curve of his jaw, the way his silence felt almost comforting. That day, we spoke of simple things our families, our dreams, our quirks. Yet somewhere in the spaces between words, I understood, his heart did not belong to me. It belonged to someone else, and maybe it always had.

When my sister called me home, I left reluctantly. Later that night, his message appeared, “Hi Mae, thanks for the time. We talked a lot about each other.”

I smiled at the screen, typing, “Uhm, welcome Shann. Thanks for asking me to walk with you.”

But the truth was, I wasn’t satisfied. I was addicted to him the warmth in his voice, the comfort of his presence, the way I melted whenever he smiled. That night, I let the weight of my feelings pour out again.

"Good evening, Shann. I just want to confess my feelings once more. You already know I have a huge crush on you, right? I’m sorry I can’t help it. I really like you. Please don’t change how you treat me. It’s okay if you reject me, I’ll still wait for you. I don’t like you just because you’re handsome. I like you because you’re kind, because you’re you. I’ll wait until the day you might choose me too."

When I pressed send, I felt both relief and dread, like throwing a fragile message in a bottle into a stormy sea.

The next morning, I woke to his reply:

"Okay, Mae. Again, I appreciate your feelings. But right now, I don’t like you back. I’m not ready, and I’m scared of love."

His words landed heavy. I knew about the heartbreak he carried the way rejection had carved fear into his heart. Still, it hurt. It was like reaching for a star you could see but never touch.

Loving him was a storm I willingly walked into. Even if he never looked my way, even if I had no chance, I loved him fiercely, quietly, endlessly.

Because sometimes, love isn’t about being chosen. Sometimes, it’s about carrying a flame, even if it burns you in the end.