I never expected my final year of sixth form to change my life, but that’s exactly what happened when I was assigned to sit next to Chamonix Jandu in English Language. I’d noticed her the year before – it was hard not to, with her artistic talent and the way she always had thoughtful answers in class discussions. But my attempts at friendship had been awkward at best.
September brought new seating arrangements, and suddenly we were sharing a desk. I’d fidget with my pencil while stealing glances at her DPR concert shirt, wanting to say something but worried about messing up again. But one day, she noticed my Taylor Swift phone wallpaper.
“I love her ‘Speak Now’ album,” she said softly, and just like that, the ice broke.
October brought crisp autumn days and conversations that flowed easier than I’d expected. We’d discuss everything from linguistic theories to our favorite films. When she showed me her photography portfolio, I found myself mesmerized not just by the images, but by how passionate she became explaining her artistic choices.
By November, we’d established a routine of studying together in the library. I’d help her with Spanish vocabulary (even though it wasn’t her subject), and she’d sketch while I practiced my Cambridge interview answers. One rainy afternoon, she drew a perfect little doodle of a London bus on my notes – she knew about my transport fascination.
“Here’s my number,” she said in December, sliding a piece of paper across the table. “In case you want to talk during Christmas break.” My hands shook slightly as I added her contact to my phone.
January arrived with frost on the windows and butterflies in my stomach. Our text conversations had grown longer, more personal. She’d send me photos of street art she discovered; I’d share obscure facts about game shows that made her respond with laughing emojis.
It was during a February study session that I finally gathered my courage. “Chamonix,” I started, my voice barely above a whisper, “I need to tell you something.” She looked up from her sketchbook, her eyes meeting mine through her glasses. “I… I really like you. More than just as a friend.”
The silence that followed felt eternal, but then she smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that,” she replied. “I like you too, Nima.”
Spring brought tentative hand-holding under library tables and shared lunches in the school courtyard. We took things slowly, both understanding each other’s need for space and time to process our feelings. She’d come to my house to watch films, and I’d visit her art exhibitions, proudly standing beside her as she explained her work.
By summer, we were officially a couple. Our friends were supportive, and even the stress of A-Level exams felt more manageable with each other’s support. We celebrated her 18th birthday at a small Korean restaurant, where I surprised her with a hand-drawn card featuring references to her favorite K-pop songs.
When results day came in August, we held hands as we opened our envelopes. She got into Camberwell, and I received my Cambridge offer. The distance would be challenging, but we were determined to make it work.
Now, in October 2026, as we sit in our favorite café, I look at Chamonix sketching the people walking past the window, and I can’t help but smile. Our relationship isn’t perfect – we both still have our anxious moments and communication challenges – but we understand each other in a way that makes everything feel right.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, catching me staring.
“Just how grateful I am for English Language seating arrangements,” I reply, and she laughs, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand.
We’re young, we’re different, and we’re both figuring out who we are, but we’re doing it together. And somehow, that makes all the difference.