For a moment, the entire classroom felt like it had shifted to make space for her.
She didn't pause at the door.
She didn't scan the room the way most students did—eyes darting, searching for familiar faces or empty seats. She walked in as if she already knew where she was going, as if the room had arranged itself for her long before she arrived.
Her steps were quiet, but not hesitant.
Tap.
Tap.
Each sound landed with an odd clarity, cutting through the low hum of pre-exam murmurs. I noticed how she carried her bag on one shoulder, how her free hand rested lightly against the strap, not gripping it, not swinging it either.
She looked exactly like she had in my memory—and not at all like it.
She wore a full-sleeve T-shirt, plain, clean, the kind that didn't ask to be noticed but somehow always was. Her jeans were simple, well-fitted without trying to be anything more. The shoes she wore made almost no sound, just a soft tap against the floor, controlled, deliberate.
Her hair was the same.
Short—not too short—resting around her shoulders, tied loosely, with a few strands refusing to stay in place near her face. Those strands moved when she walked, brushing lightly against her cheek, and I caught myself watching them instead of her.
She didn't look at anyone.
Not me.
Not the room.
Her gaze stayed forward, calm, focused, like she was already inside the exam even though it hadn't begun.
And then she stopped.
Right beside me.
My breath caught, just for a second.
She placed her bag down carefully, pulled out her admit card, her pen, her sheets—everything arranged with quiet efficiency. No rush. No wasted movement. She sat down, straightened her posture, and opened her answer sheet like this was exactly where she had expected to be all along.
The seat beside me was no longer empty.
It felt… correct now.
I stared back down at my notebook immediately, as if I'd been caught doing something wrong. My heart thudded once, hard enough to make me aware of it. I forced myself to breathe normally.
Calm down, I told myself. She's just a classmate.
But my body hadn't gotten the message.
Every small movement beside me registered sharply—the rustle of paper, the soft click of her pen opening, the way her elbow rested close enough that I was suddenly very aware of where mine was.
She didn't look at me.
Not even once.
And somehow, that made it harder.
The invigilator entered a minute later, carrying a stack of question papers. The room straightened collectively. Whispers died. Chairs aligned.
I focused forward.
The paper landed on my desk.
The exam began.
At first, everything returned to normal.
Questions made sense. My pen moved steadily. Lines formed the way they always did. The familiar rhythm of thinking and writing settled in, grounding me.
Minutes passed.
Then—
I felt it.
A light pressure against my elbow.
Not a push.
Not an accident.
A nudge.
I froze.
Slowly, I turned my head just enough to see what was happening.
She had slid her answer sheet toward me.
Just slightly.
Enough to cross the invisible line between our desks.
For a moment, I didn't understand what I was seeing.
My brain scrambled for explanations.
Did she make a mistake?
Is she confused?
Is this allowed?
Before I could react, she calmly pulled my sheet toward herself.
She didn't look at me when she did it.
She didn't whisper.
She didn't explain.
She simply continued writing—on my answer sheet—as if this was the most natural arrangement in the world.
My entire system shut down.
My pen hovered uselessly above the paper.
My heart skipped so violently it felt like it might trip over itself.
What is happening?
I stared at the sheet now in front of me—hers.
Her handwriting was neat. Confident. Clear.
She had already answered a few questions.
And they were… good.
Better than mine.
I swallowed.
Slowly, carefully, I began reading what she had written, afraid that any sudden movement might break whatever fragile understanding existed between us.
We didn't exchange glances.
We didn't smile.
We didn't acknowledge the absurdity of what we were doing.
We just… worked.
I wrote a line on her sheet.
She wrote on mine.
Occasionally, one of us would pause, glance briefly at an answer, then continue.
It felt illegal.
And yet—
It also felt strangely comfortable.
Like teamwork that didn't need permission.
My mind was screaming questions, but my hands obeyed the quiet agreement unfolding between us. I corrected a point. She adjusted a definition. Our pens moved in alternating rhythms, never colliding, never hesitating.
Then she stopped writing.
She leaned just slightly closer and pointed at one of the options I had marked.
Her voice came soft, controlled, just loud enough for me to hear.
"Is this correct?"
There it was.
Her voice again.
Not imagined this time.
Real.
Present.
It slid into my awareness smoothly, like it had always belonged there.
"Yes," I replied immediately.
She looked at the option again, brows knitting just a little.
"Surely?"
I glanced at her—really glanced this time. Close enough to see the concentration in her eyes, the seriousness with which she treated even a small doubt.
"Yes," I said again, a little more confidently.
She studied my face for half a second.
Then she nodded.
Satisfied.
She returned to writing.
But my mind didn't.
It raced.
Say something.
Anything.
Don't let this be the only conversation.
Minutes passed before courage—thin and shaky—finally surfaced.
I leaned toward her, keeping my voice low.
"Can we… distribute work for the next paper?"
She paused.
Her pen stopped.
For a moment, I thought I'd crossed a line.
Then she looked at me.
Not startled.
Just considering.
"Yes," she said quietly.
Relief washed through me.
"How many chapters?" I asked.
"First four for you," she replied without hesitation. "Last four for me."
There was no negotiation in her tone.
Just clarity.
Just decision.
The bell rang before either of us could say anything more.
The spell broke.
Chairs scraped back. Voices rose. The exam ended.
She gathered her things calmly, returned the sheets to their rightful owners, and stood up.
I watched her from the corner of my eye, pretending not to.
I waited.
For a glance.
For a look back.
For anything.
She didn't turn.
She walked out with the rest of the students, her back straight, her pace unhurried.
I laughed silently at myself.
You're imagining too much.
I stepped into the corridor with the crowd, my heart still racing, my mind replaying every second.
And then—
I saw her again.
Outside.
Passing by with her brother's bike.
Our eyes didn't meet.
Or maybe they did.
I wasn't sure.
Because just then, a familiar voice cut through everything.
"Bro," Shivis said, tapping my shoulder, grinning. "A long way story had just started moving forward. Who was sitting next to you?"
I opened my mouth to answer.
And realized—
I didn't even know her name.
For the first time, it hit me how deeply someone could enter your life without giving you a single detail to hold onto.