I had been walking past the sports field, soaking in the excitement, when a basketball came hurtling out of nowhere and smacked me squarely on the head.
Everything went black.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying in the infirmary.
The doctor shot him a teasing look and gestured in his direction.
“He’s the one who brought you in, all flustered and in a panic, insisting I give you a thorough checkup,” the doctor said, his tone lighthearted.
“I thought it was something serious, but it turns out you just needed some food. Low blood sugar, that’s all.”
“Good thing you’re awake now. If you’d stayed out much longer, I think this young man might’ve shed a few tears.”
Embarrassment heated my cheeks as I bowed my head and muttered a quick thank-you.
He didn’t reply.
Puzzled, I glanced up and froze when our eyes met. His gaze held a familiar shyness, his expression tentative.
“It’s you!” I blurted in surprise.
His ears flushed a deep crimson, and he mumbled, barely louder than a whisper, “Yes.” Later, I came to know his name and his story, and eventually, his hand in mine became a constant. That handholding stretched into seven long years.