For the first time, it hit me how deeply someone could enter your life without giving you a single detail to hold onto.
The thought stayed with me as I walked toward the bike stand, the noise of the campus rising and falling around me like waves I was no longer fully inside. Students laughed, argued about answers, complained about invigilators. Someone nearby celebrated loudly, already convinced they had topped the paper.
I heard none of it properly.
My mind was still in the classroom.
The quiet slide of papers.
The shared silence.
Her voice asking, "Surely?"
I replayed that one word again and again, not because of what it meant, but because of how she said it—like she trusted logic more than impulse, like she wanted certainty before moving forward. That single question told me more about her than a hundred introductions could have.
"Bro!"
Shivis's voice snapped me back.
He was already there, helmet dangling from one hand, grin firmly in place like he had been waiting for this moment all day.
"What?" I said, trying to sound normal.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice theatrically. "Who was sitting next to you?"
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
He laughed. "Don't act innocent. I saw your face when you walked out. You looked like you'd just survived something."
"I just wrote an exam," I said.
"No," he replied confidently, starting the bike. "You experienced something."
I climbed on behind him without arguing. There was no point. Shivis had a talent for noticing things people tried very hard to hide.
As we pulled out of the campus, he didn't speed up like usual. He rode slower, deliberately, like a detective giving space for a confession.
"So?" he said. "Girl?"
I sighed. "She was just sitting next to me."
"Just," he repeated, amused. "Bro, your definition of just is suspicious."
I stared at the road ahead. "We didn't even talk much."
"Did you talk?" he pressed.
"…Yes."
His grin widened immediately. "Aha."
"For studies," I added quickly. "Exam-related."
He laughed out loud. "That's how it starts."
"No," I said firmly. "It's not like that."
He didn't respond right away. He just nodded slowly, the way someone nods when they don't believe a word you're saying but are willing to let you continue lying to yourself.
When he dropped me at home, he didn't even turn the bike off.
"So," he said, tapping his fingers on the handle. "Name?"
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
"I don't know," I admitted.
That finally surprised him.
"You talked… and you don't know her name?"
I shrugged. "It didn't come up."
He stared at me for a second, then burst out laughing. "Bro, that's actually impressive."
"It's not funny."
"No, it is," he said, still laughing. "Mysterious girl. Silent teamwork. Paper exchange. No name. Very filmy."
I rolled my eyes and walked toward my house, waving him off.
Inside, everything felt louder than usual. The clatter of utensils, the television volume, the voices—my head buzzed with it all. I ate dinner quickly, answered questions automatically, and as soon as I could, I escaped back out.
To Shivis's house.
As usual, we sat down with our books.
As unusual, nothing went according to plan.
"So," he said, opening his notebook. "Let's revise."
I nodded.
Thirty seconds passed.
"Tell me how she looks," he said suddenly.
I looked up. "What?"
"Describe her," he insisted. "Scientifically."
"I don't know," I said again.
He frowned. "You don't know anything?"
"I know…" I paused, searching. "She's calm."
"That's not a description," he said.
"She's focused."
"That's a personality trait."
"She doesn't talk unnecessarily."
He leaned back, smirking. "Bro, you're already gone."
I threw my pen at him. "Shut up."
He dodged easily. "Okay, okay. Serious question. Did she smile?"
I thought about it.
Not really.
Not openly.
"She nodded," I said.
He whistled softly. "Dangerous."
"What is?"
"Girls who nod instead of smiling," he said wisely. "They're confident."
I didn't respond.
Because he was right.
Later that night, after I went home, after the books were closed and the lights dimmed, the quiet returned.
And with it—
So did she.
Not her face.
Not her voice.
Just the absence of information.
I lay there thinking about everything I knew.
She sat beside me.
She studied seriously.
She trusted her answers but still questioned them.
She agreed to distribute chapters without hesitation.
And everything I didn't.
Her name.
Her batch.
Her year.
Her world outside that desk.
It felt strange—to know so much and so little at the same time.
The next exam was still a day away.
Plenty of time to study.
Plenty of time for thoughts to wander.
As sleep finally pulled me under, one idea surfaced gently, persistently—
The next exam… she'll be there again.
And for the first time, I wasn't nervous about the paper.
I was nervous about what would happen if she wasn't.