That realization stayed with me longer than I expected.
It followed me through the night, not loudly, not insistently—just present enough to be felt. I turned from one side of the bed to the other, adjusting the pillow, listening to the ceiling fan hum above me. The room was dark, but my thoughts were not.
I wasn't imagining conversations with her.
I wasn't planning anything.
I was simply aware of the possibility of absence.
And that, I realized, was new.
I had always been comfortable with things being temporary. Exams came and went. People passed through your life for a semester, a year, sometimes less. You adjusted. You moved on. That was how things worked.
So why did the idea of her not being there unsettle me?
I closed my eyes, telling myself it was nothing—just habit forming too quickly, just coincidence dressed up as meaning.
Eventually, sleep arrived, slow and reluctant.
Morning came faster than I wanted it to.
The sky was pale when I woke up, the air carrying a faint chill. I moved through my routine mechanically—brushing, dressing, packing my bag—my body doing what it had done countless times before, my mind slightly ahead, already at the college.
Shivis arrived a little late that day.
"Sorry," he said, parking hurriedly. "Had to help my mom with something."
"It's fine," I replied, climbing on.
He glanced at me in the side mirror as he started the bike. "You look tense."
"I'm not."
"You are," he insisted. "You look like you're about to give an interview."
I didn't answer.
The ride to the college felt longer, quieter. Shivis talked less. I listened more to the sound of the engine, to the wind brushing past us, to my own thoughts, which kept circling the same quiet question.
Will she be there?
The campus looked the same as always when we arrived—crowded, noisy, impatient. Students stood in groups, some revising frantically, some already laughing as if the exam were a formality.
We went straight to the notice board.
Same classroom.
Relief flickered through me before I could stop it.
We split up, heading in different directions.
The corridor outside Classroom 204 was already filling. I slowed as I approached the door, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this felt. I wasn't waiting for someone I knew. I wasn't expecting anything to happen.
I was just… noticing.
I stepped inside.
The room was half-full.
I went straight to my seat and sat down.
The seat beside me was empty.
Again.
I told myself it didn't matter.
I opened my notebook, read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word. My pen tapped lightly against the desk, a habit I hadn't realized I'd picked up.
Students continued to arrive.
Every time the door opened, my attention lifted slightly, involuntarily.
Not her.
Not her.
Not her.
I didn't know when I'd started doing that.
Minutes passed.
The invigilator entered, placed his bag on the table, and began arranging papers.
My chest tightened.
Maybe she's late, I reasoned. Maybe she's in a different room.
The thought disappointed me more than I wanted to admit.
Just as the invigilator turned toward the door to close it—
Footsteps.
Measured.
Unhurried.
I didn't look immediately.
I didn't have to.
I felt it.
She entered the room the same way she had the last time—not drawing attention, not seeking it. She walked in, eyes forward, calm expression unchanged.
And once again, she stopped beside me.
Sat down.
Placed her bag on the floor.
The relief that washed through me was quiet but unmistakable.
I exhaled slowly, pretending to adjust my papers.
She glanced at me briefly this time—not a full look, just enough to acknowledge presence.
A recognition.
Nothing more.
The exam began.
And with it, the familiar silence.
We didn't exchange papers today.
There was no nudge. No silent agreement.
We wrote independently, side by side, our pens moving in parallel rhythms. Occasionally, our elbows brushed lightly—not enough to apologize for, not enough to ignore entirely.
It felt… settled.
Like something that had found its place.
Once, halfway through the exam, she paused and looked at a question for longer than necessary. I noticed without meaning to.
She glanced at my sheet—not directly, just enough to see the structure.
I didn't react.
She returned to her paper.
That was all.
The bell rang.
Chairs moved. Voices rose.
She packed her things, stood up, and hesitated for a fraction of a second—barely noticeable.
Then she spoke.
Not to me directly.
But close enough.
"Next exam," she said quietly, more to the air than to anyone, "same syllabus."
I nodded before I thought about it. "Yes."
She looked at me then.
Really looked.
And for the first time, there was something new in her expression.
Not curiosity.
Not friendliness.
Recognition with intent.
As if she was deciding something.
She turned and walked out.
I stayed seated for a moment longer, my heart beating a little faster than before.
Because for the first time since this had begun—
It felt like the next move wouldn't belong only to me.
And I had no idea what she had just decided.
The thought followed me out of the classroom.
Not urgently. Not loudly. It simply walked beside me, matching my pace, refusing to be shaken off. The corridor felt narrower than before, crowded with students talking all at once, voices overlapping in careless excitement. Someone bumped into my shoulder and apologized. I nodded without really seeing them.
My attention was elsewhere.
On the way she had looked at me.
Not long.
Not intensely.
But differently.
It wasn't the neutral acknowledgment from before. It wasn't the distant politeness of two classmates sharing space. There had been purpose in it—like she had reached a conclusion quietly and didn't feel the need to announce it.
That unsettled me more than confusion ever could.
Outside, the sunlight hit harder. The campus buzzed with post-exam energy. Parents stood near the gates again, scanning faces, waving when they spotted familiar ones. Bikes roared to life. Laughter spilled freely now that the tension had loosened its grip.
I walked toward the bike stand slowly.
Shivis was already there, helmet on, leaning against his bike with an expression that told me he'd been waiting not just for me—but for details.
He didn't even let me speak.
"She came," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"The girl," he clarified. "She came today, right?"
I hesitated for half a second.
"Yes."
He grinned. "I knew it."
I sighed, dropping my bag onto the seat. "You didn't know anything."
"I know you," he said, starting the bike. "And you look calmer now."
That wasn't true.
If anything, I felt more aware. Like something had shifted slightly off balance, and my mind was trying to adjust without making it obvious.
The ride home passed in fragments. Shivis talked, teased, speculated. I responded when necessary, laughed when expected. But a part of me stayed behind—back in the classroom, in that final glance she'd given me.
At home, the afternoon stretched long and quiet. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the neighborhood drifting in through the open window. Somewhere, a radio played faintly. A vendor called out. Life continued without asking what had just happened inside me.
I replayed the exam in reverse.
The silence.
The parallel writing.
Her brief pause.
The sentence she'd spoken—Next exam. Same syllabus.
Why had she said it out loud?
She could have assumed I knew. She could have said nothing at all. But she had chosen to speak—softly, deliberately—placing the thought between us like a marker.
A reminder.
An expectation.
That night, studying felt different.
Not distracted.
Focused—but with an undercurrent of anticipation.
I divided chapters the way we had agreed earlier, making notes carefully, as if the quality of my preparation now carried weight beyond my own performance. Not pressure. Responsibility.
Toward something unspoken.
Shivis noticed immediately.
"Bro," he said, flipping through his phone while I worked. "You're studying like this is personal."
"It is," I replied before thinking.
He looked up, surprised. "Oh?"
I shook my head. "I mean—exam-wise."
He smiled slowly. "Sure."
When I finally went to bed, I didn't struggle to sleep.
That surprised me.
The thoughts were there, yes—but they didn't tangle. They lined up quietly, one after another, like they were waiting their turn.
I realized then that whatever she had decided, it wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't a leap.
It was small.
Practical.
Something that fit neatly into her world.
And somehow, she had allowed it to overlap with mine.
The next exam would come.
We would sit beside each other again.
We would probably talk—briefly, carefully.
Or maybe we wouldn't.
Either way, something had already been set in motion.
Not loudly.
Not obviously.
But enough to matter.
I turned onto my side, letting my eyes close.
And for the first time since all of this began, I didn't wonder if she would be there next time.
I wondered what would happen because she was.
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