The days after the second exam didn't arrive with anything dramatic.
They slipped in quietly, one after another, blending into a rhythm so familiar that it almost felt intentional—like life was trying to reassure me that nothing had changed. Morning followed night. Study followed rest. Routine swallowed everything the way it always had.
And yet, something had changed.
It just didn't announce itself.
I woke up early every day, not because I was anxious, not because I was excited—but because my mind refused to stay asleep longer than necessary. The alarm rarely got a chance to ring. I would lie there for a few moments, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house breathe around me, and wait for my thoughts to settle.
They never fully did.
I went through the motions. Brushed my teeth. Got dressed. Ate breakfast. Picked up my books. From the outside, nothing looked different. Even to myself, I seemed unchanged.
But somewhere beneath all of that, something restless had taken root.
Studying became easier and harder at the same time.
Easier—because I had a structure now. Chapters divided. Responsibilities assigned. A clear understanding of what needed to be done.
Harder—because my mind had learned a new habit.
Every few pages, without warning, it would drift.
Not to her face exactly. Not to specific words she'd spoken.
But to her presence.
The way she sat.
The way she listened.
The calm certainty with which she answered questions.
It wasn't distracting in the usual sense. I wasn't losing time. I wasn't daydreaming endlessly. It was more like a quiet echo—something that returned briefly, then faded, then returned again.
In the afternoons, I helped at home like always. Small chores. Errands. Conversations that didn't require full attention. My parents talked about practical things—results, future plans, responsibilities. I responded properly, respectfully, the way I always had.
But even then, sometimes, a thought would surface unexpectedly.
What would she be doing right now?
The question felt strange every time it appeared.
I wasn't someone who wondered about people unnecessarily. If someone wasn't part of my daily life, they usually stayed out of my thoughts. That had always been true.
So why her?
I didn't know her name.
I didn't know her background.
I didn't even know what she thought of me.
And yet, my mind treated her like unfinished business.
In the evenings, like clockwork, I walked to Shivis's house with my notebooks tucked under my arm. The path was familiar—every stone, every turn, every shortcut memorized through years of repetition. The sky often glowed orange by the time I reached his place, the air cooling just enough to make studying tolerable.
Those sessions followed a predictable pattern.
We started seriously.
We explained chapters to each other, argued over definitions, corrected mistakes. Sometimes one of us would confidently explain something wrong, only to realize it five minutes later and groan in frustration. Other times, we would get stuck on a single question and spend half an hour debating it like it was a philosophical problem.
Somehow, despite all the noise, progress happened.
But even there—especially there—she returned.
Not forcefully.
Quietly.
Shivis noticed before I did.
"You're unusually quiet," he said one evening, flipping a page loudly.
"I'm studying," I replied.
"You're thinking," he corrected.
I ignored him.
He leaned back against the wall, watching me with narrowed eyes. "Still about her?"
I looked up. "What?"
He smiled. "Relax. You don't have to say anything. Your silence is loud enough."
I threw a pen at him. "Focus."
He caught it easily, laughing. "I am focusing. On you."
We returned to studying, but the truth lingered between us. He didn't push further, and I was grateful for that. Shivis knew when to joke—and when to stop.
The nights passed the same way.
Dinner. A little revision. Then bed.
Lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, I would replay fragments of the second exam day—not everything, just small moments.
The way she asked, "Is this correct?"
The way she nodded when satisfied.
The way she didn't hesitate when we divided chapters.
I realized something slowly, over those nights.
I wasn't attached to her.
I was attached to the comfort she brought into a space that was usually filled with tension.
Exams were stressful. Competitive. Unforgiving.
And yet, when she sat beside me, the pressure softened. Not because she helped me cheat. Not because she reassured me verbally.
But because she treated the situation like something manageable.
That calm was contagious.
Three days passed.
Then five.
Then a week.
No exams with her.
No accidental meetings.
No updates.
And that was when the absence started to speak louder than the presence ever had.
I noticed it one afternoon while revising a chapter I already knew well. My pen stopped mid-line, and I realized I was listening—for something that wasn't there.
A voice behind me.
A rustle of paper.
A presence I had grown used to without realizing it.
That realization unsettled me.
I closed the notebook and leaned back, staring at the wall.
This is getting stupid, I told myself.
She wasn't part of my life. Not really. She was a coincidence. A seating arrangement. A few shared answers.
And yet—
When the next exam date was announced, my first reaction wasn't stress.
It was anticipation.
The morning of the exam arrived quietly, but something felt different from the moment I woke up.
Not anxiety.
Not excitement.
Restlessness.
I got ready faster than usual, barely stopping to double-check things. When Shivis arrived outside my house, I hopped onto his bike without waiting for his usual comment.
He raised an eyebrow. "You're early."
"I know," I said.
"You okay?"
"Yes."
He didn't look convinced, but he started the bike anyway.
The ride to college felt longer than usual. Or maybe I was just more aware of the distance. The wind hit my face sharply, grounding me, but my thoughts were already ahead of me—inside the campus, inside the hall.
Maybe she'll arrive early too, I thought.
The idea surprised me.
I wasn't hoping for a dramatic interaction. I didn't want anything big to happen. I just wanted time.
Time without a bell.
Time without invigilators.
Time where talking didn't feel like a crime.
The moment we reached the college gate, my eyes moved instinctively, scanning faces without conscious effort.
Nothing.
I told myself not to read into it.
Still, as we walked toward the main hall, my attention stayed heightened, jumping slightly every time someone with similar hair or posture passed by.
Then Shivis stopped suddenly.
"Bro," he said, pointing ahead. "Seating arrangement changed again."
For a split second, disappointment hit.
Then hope followed immediately.
Because if things had changed, anything was possible.
We moved toward the notice board. Students crowded around it, murmuring, complaining, scanning lists desperately. I pushed closer, eyes moving quickly over the printed names.
Roll numbers.
Sorted.
My finger traced down the column.
And then I saw it.
My roll number.
Beside hers.
Again.
I stared at the list longer than necessary.
Then checked again, just to be sure.
A slow smile crept into my thoughts before I could stop it.
I don't mind, I admitted silently.
In fact… I'm happy.
That realization should have embarrassed me.
It didn't.
I walked toward the hall quickly, pretending to look for my seat, pretending not to feel the quiet excitement building inside me—and failing at both.
As I entered, my eyes searched the room automatically.
Not for my desk.
For hers.
And then—
I saw her.
Standing near the last row.
Talking softly to another girl who looked similar enough to be family.
She was smiling.
Not openly.
But gently.
The kind of smile that appears when you're comfortable, when you don't need to guard yourself.
For a moment, I forgot to move.
And then understanding clicked.
Her sister.
The resemblance made sense now.
Two sisters. Familiar ease. Quiet conversation.
Only then did another detail register.
Her sister's roll number.
Also in this hall.
I exhaled slowly.
"Oho…" I murmured to myself.
"Means time waste today."
If her sister was around, there would be no space to talk. No quiet moment. That small window before the exam—gone.
I adjusted my bag and walked to my seat anyway, trying not to stare.
That was when something unexpected happened.
She came to her seat early.
And before I could gather the courage to say anything—
She spoke first.
"How are you?"