The thing about moments that change you quietly is that life doesn't pause to acknowledge them.
The day after the exam did not arrive with drama. No signboard appeared in the sky announcing that something had begun. The morning light looked the same. The road outside my house sounded the same. Even my routine stayed intact, as if nothing inside me had shifted at all.
And yet, when I woke up, she was already there.
Not clearly. Not like a picture. More like a presence—something hovering just behind my thoughts, refusing to step fully into view.
I didn't try to think about her.
That part is important.
I didn't lie in bed replaying her face or imagining conversations. I didn't even say her name in my head—mostly because I didn't know it. But when my eyes opened and I stared at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above me, a strange calm settled in, the same calm I had felt when she stood beside my sister, waiting.
I shook it off.
Focus, I told myself. Exams aren't over.
Three days.
That's all there was between the first exam and the next one.
Three days that passed faster than they should have.
The first evening after the exam, Shivis was waiting for me outside the college gate, leaning against his bike like he owned the place. The moment I climbed on behind him, he twisted the accelerator harder than necessary.
The bike roared.
"Brooo," he shouted over the noise, laughing, "today's paper was EASY."
"You say that every time," I replied, gripping the handle behind me.
"And I'm right every time," he said confidently.
The road blurred past us as he kept talking—about answers, about how everyone else panicked for no reason, about how Question 4 was clearly a trick and people fell for it anyway. I responded automatically, my voice participating while my mind lagged a step behind.
At one point, he asked, "You wrote B or C for the second one?"
"B," I said.
"Wrong," he replied instantly. "C was obvious."
I smiled despite myself. This was our rhythm. Debate first, agreement later, confidence always.
He dropped me at home with the same dramatic rev of the engine, like the exam had been a race and he'd won something invisible. I stood there for a second, watching him disappear down the street, the sound of his bike fading slowly.
Only then did I realize something.
The entire ride home, I hadn't thought about her.
That should have been a relief.
Instead, it felt… strange.
That night, as usual, I went to Shivis's house to study. Our notebooks were spread across the floor, pages marked, pens uncapped, water bottles within reach. The room smelled faintly of coffee and dust. A ceiling fan clicked rhythmically as it rotated above us.
We studied seriously—for about twenty minutes.
Then we argued about a formula.
Then we studied again.
Then we argued about something completely unrelated.
Those hours always worked like that. Somehow, in between the noise and nonsense, real work got done. The tension of exams softened, spread out, made bearable.
At some point, while flipping pages, my pen paused.
Not because I was stuck.
Because a thought had slipped in quietly.
She must be studying too.
The idea came fully formed, uninvited.
I imagined her sitting somewhere, papers spread neatly, posture straight, focus steady. Not rushing. Not panicking. Just… doing the work.
The image didn't distract me.
It grounded me.
I pushed the notebook forward and continued studying.
The second day passed the same way.
Morning revision. Afternoon restlessness. Evening study. Shivis talking too much. Me pretending I wasn't tired.
And then the third day arrived.
Exam day.
The air felt different that morning.
Not heavy with fear—just weighted. Like the silence before something important speaks. The sky was clear, but there was a stillness underneath it, the kind that makes even familiar streets feel slightly unfamiliar.
Shivis arrived outside my house right on time.
He didn't honk.
He didn't shout my name.
He just waited.
That alone told me he felt it too.
I hopped onto the bike without a word, adjusting my bag automatically as he started the engine. We rode in silence for a while, which was rare for him. The wind cut against my face, sharp and grounding.
As the college came into view, my heartbeat picked up—not with nervousness, but with awareness.
Today, something inside me whispered.
Not today I'll do well.
Not today matters.
Just—
Today.
The campus was louder than last time.
Students stood scattered everywhere instead of moving in clear lines. Some stared at notice boards. Others walked back and forth, irritation visible on their faces.
Shivis slowed the bike.
"What's wrong?" he muttered.
I jumped off before he even parked properly and moved toward the notice board. Papers were taped haphazardly, names and roll numbers printed in tight rows.
That's when I saw it.
Room changes.
"Bro…" I said slowly, scanning the sheet. "Class numbers changed."
"Why would they do that?" he groaned, already searching for his name.
The crowd around the board shifted constantly—students stepping back, stepping forward, frustration rising. I ran my finger down the list until my name appeared.
Classroom 204.
I stared at it longer than necessary.
Not because of the room.
Because of what came next.
As I turned away from the notice board, one thought rose to the surface, clear and undeniable.
Will she be there?
The question startled me with its honesty.
I hadn't thought of her deliberately for three days. I hadn't replayed her face or imagined her voice. And yet, the moment possibility opened itself, my mind went straight to her.
The girl who sat beside me.
The girl with the calm voice.
The girl whose presence had settled into me without asking.
I shook my head slightly and started walking toward Classroom 204.
Focus, I reminded myself again. It's just an exam.
The corridor leading to the classroom felt longer than usual. Each step echoed louder in my ears. When I reached the door, I slowed unconsciously before looking inside.
Rows of desks.
Students settling in.
I scanned the seats.
Her seat was empty.
Something inside me dipped.
Not sharply. Not painfully.
Just enough to be noticed.
I took my place, placing my bag down, arranging my pens with unnecessary precision. I opened my notebook, pretended to revise, pretended that the absence meant nothing.
Of course she's not here yet, I told myself. People arrive at different times.
Still, the space beside me felt… unfinished.
I kept my eyes on the page.
And then—
Footsteps.
Not rushed.
Not hesitant.
Measured.
They crossed the threshold of the room with a sound that carried attention with it, the way some movements naturally do.
I looked up.
And she walked in.
For a moment, the entire classroom felt like it had shifted to make space for her.