The Fall No One Caught — Ryla Gill
At church I lay on the floor in an abandoned room upstairs. The bass from the drums thunders up through the floorboards, each beat a low vibration rattling the entirety of my body. Even from upstairs, I can feel the church alive beneath me––voices rising, hands clapping, the rhythm of worship pulsing through the walls. But I’m not part of it. I sat apart, curled up with my phone, texting him. I ignore the voice of my grandma––the pastor, the pillar of this place––her sermons muffled by distance and by choice. I’ve tuned her out completely. I’m here, but not really. My attention, my hope, is somewhere else entirely.
COVID tore us apart before we even had the chance to build something. One day we were talking, the next, life got put on hold––and so did we. For years, there was silence, we were young. Then suddenly, three years later, we reconnected. Just like that. Despite all the time and space between us, I found myself falling for him all over again––only this time, the crush was deeper, stronger, and somehow more dangerous.
I don’t even remember how the conversation started. It’s like waking up and forgetting the dream I had the night before. One moment we were joking around, and the next, he had me admitting I liked him. I don’t know how he did it––how he got past the guard I swore I had––but he did. So there I was at church. My grandma preached her heart out downstairs, but I was too busy smiling at a text from a boy I didn’t realize was all wrong for me. Not yet. Back then, all I knew was that he made me feel something––wanted, special, noticed––and that feeling drowned out everything else.
After church, the care ride back to my grandma’s house was wrapped in silence––the kind that hums louder than words. We didn’t talk much after I admitted I liked him. The conversation had dried up, like rain that never quite hit the ground. I stared out the window, watching buildings blur into streakings of red, green, and gold, pretending I wasn’t waiting for him to say something. Anything. I’m no stranger to rejection––I’ve worn it before, like a coat that’s grown too familiar. The point is, it’s not new. I’ve learned to expect the slow fade, the unanswered messages, the way people back away when I step a little too close. But this time, it stung differently. This time, I had let myself believe in the fall. I handed him a piece of something soft, something real, and truly thought he’d catch it. Catch me. Not out of obligation, not out of pity–– but because, for a brief moment, I thought he might feel it too. There’s a kind of hope that creeps in when you least expect it––the kind that whispers, Maybe this one is different. And I listened. I thought maybe he saw me, not just the version of me I let everyone else see, but the real one. The quiet parts. The messy ones. The parts I usually hide. I thought he’d hold those pieces gently. I thought I could trust him with them.
But silence has a way of answering questions you’re too afraid to ask. And by the time we pulled into the driveway, that silence had said enough. My heart felt bruised––like it had leapt toward something that was never really there.
Then, just as I stepped into the house, my phone lit up. His bitmoji popped up, grinning like nothing had happened, like the fall hadn’t mattered. And in that small, ridiculous cartoon face, I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or pretend I hadn’t been waiting for it all along.
I lay in the third room of my grandma’s house, the one with the mattress that always felt a little too firm. The springs creaked beneath me, familiar and rough, but comforting––like everything in that room had been softened by years of love, family, and stories whispered into pillows late at night. Even the lint scattered across the old mattress felt like something tender, a quiet reminder that this space had helped generations before me.
Phone in hand, my thumb trembles slightly as I open his message. I like you too. Four words. So casual, so small, but they sent a warmth rushing through my chest like sunrise through a cracked window. I smiled without thinking, my heart blooming wide and wild. For a moment, it all made sense. For a moment, I felt chosen.
So I did what felt natural. I asked him to be my boyfriend. Duh. Isn’t that what you do when someone says they like you back? You leap. You reach out. You believe-because why wouldn’t you?
But then came his reply. And it didn’t sound like affection. It didn’t sound like joy.
if we dated my friends would clown me.
Why….
Because of how you look
oh…..
Because I’m not pretty.
Ryla Gill is a 16-year-old high school sophomore who loves competitive cheer, track and field, and getting lost in a good book. She usually writes for herself—as a way to understand her feelings and reflect on the moments she holds on to. Her stories are shaped by real-life experiences and a desire to connect with others. When she’s not at school, she’s likely spending time with her family, hanging out with friends, listening to music, or catching up on sleep. Through her writing, Ryla hopes to help people feel understood, seen, and a little less alone.