RED RIBBON GIRL

Tonight, I’m writing again about her. I don’t know how many pages I’ve filled with her name, her image, her laughter that I only catch from afar. But every time I hold this pen, it’s her face that comes alive in my mind—the Red Ribbon Girl.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How something so simple can make someone unforgettable. She always dresses in black, as if she wants to disappear into the background. But there, on her head, tied so effortlessly, is that small red ribbon. And because of it, she never disappears—not to me. That ribbon is like a flame in the dark, a signal that she exists, and my eyes can’t help but find her.

Sometimes I think it’s more than an accessory. It feels like a symbol, like a secret sign from the universe. In the old stories, there’s something called the red string of fate. They say two people destined for each other are tied together by an invisible red thread, bound across time, distance, and circumstance. And every time I see her ribbon, I wonder… is this the universe whispering to me? Is this its way of saying, “There she is—the one your heart has been waiting for”?

I imagine it sometimes: that a thin red string connects her ribbon to my hand, and maybe that’s why I keep writing about her, why I can’t escape her presence even in silence. The thought feels foolish, but it also feels like hope. And hope is something I can’t give up when it comes to her.

She doesn’t know this, but every hallway she walks down becomes brighter. Even though she wears black, she carries a light with her—the kind that doesn’t blind you, but instead warms you from within. When she smiles, it’s not just her lips curving, it’s as if the whole day changes its tune. Her laughter—God, if she only knew—her laughter is music I don’t even need headphones for.

And yet, here I am. Just a boy who notices too much, who dreams too much, but who never dares enough. I tell myself I’m not worthy. My shoes are worn, my pockets nearly empty, my life nothing extravagant. I have no fancy car to drive her home, no expensive watch to impress her, no grand gestures to sweep her off her feet. All I have is this heart that beats so honestly for her. And sometimes I wonder—maybe that is enough. Maybe the red string isn’t about riches, but about truth.

I dream about small things: sitting beside her at a gig, sharing the songs we both love, maybe letting our voices blend as if we’d been harmonizing all along. I dream of walking with her to places I call my own, and letting those places transform, become ours. I dream of talking until midnight, about life, about pain, about joy, about what it means to dream. And in that dream, there’s no wall between us—just a ribbon, a string, a connection that can’t be broken.

But the truth still stings. To me, she is like a star—beautiful, luminous, and far. I watch from a distance, and distance feels safer, even if it hurts. How do I confess to her, when I feel so small compared to the brilliance she carries so effortlessly? How do I say, “You’re the reason my poems exist, the reason my pen doesn’t rest”?

So here I am, hiding in my diary, pouring out the words I can’t say to her face

Red Ribbon Girl, I like you.

No—I love you. Not the shallow love of passing glances, but the kind that writes itself into every story I imagine. The kind that makes me look forward to mornings, knowing I might see you again. The kind that makes me believe the universe tied my fate to yours with that invisible red thread.

Maybe you’ll never know. Maybe you’ll never read these words. But if destiny is kind, if the red string really exists, then one day you’ll see me—not just as the quiet boy in the corner, not just as another face in the hallway, but as someone who has loved you silently, faithfully, all along.

Until then, I will keep writing. Every poem, every story, every confession hidden here in these pages—

you’ll always be the star.

You’ll always be the heroine.

You’ll always be my Red Ribbon Girl.