"How are you?"
The words were simple.
Too simple, almost. The kind of words people say without thinking, without weighing consequences, without attaching meaning.
And yet, when they reached me, they felt heavy.
Not because of what they were—but because she had said them.
For a second, the room seemed to dull around the edges. The scrape of chairs softened. The distant hum of the ceiling fan blurred into a single low note. Even the smell of chalk and paper faded slightly, replaced by the faint scent of soap and fresh fabric drifting from her sleeve as she placed her bag down.
I blinked.
My mind scrambled—not for words, but for control.
My heartbeat had already accelerated, loud enough that I was sure she could hear it if she leaned any closer. I became painfully aware of my posture, of how I was sitting, of where my hands were resting. My fingers tightened around my pen unconsciously, the plastic warm from my grip.
"I'm… okay," I said.
Too fast.
The words rushed out before I could shape them properly, bumping into each other slightly. I hated that immediately. I hated how obvious it sounded, how it revealed more than I wanted it to.
But she didn't react.
No smile.
No surprise.
No judgment.
She simply nodded once, slowly, like she was acknowledging a fact rather than evaluating a response.
That calm of hers—it did something to the air.
It steadied it.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry.
And then—without fully planning it, without rehearsing it in my head the way I usually did with conversations—I asked,
"What about learning?"
The words felt heavy the moment they left my mouth.
Four words.
That's all.
But it felt like I had physically lifted something and placed it between us.
For half a heartbeat, I wondered if it sounded stupid. If it sounded childish. If it sounded like I was trying too hard to sound serious.
But she didn't hesitate.
Not even for a breath.
"I learned all my part," she said.
Her voice was even. Confident. Not loud, not proud—just factual. Like she was stating the weather.
I felt something warm bloom in my chest.
Not excitement.
Not admiration.
Something quieter.
Respect.
She's really intelligent, I thought.
And immediately after that thought came another—unexpected, uninvited.
I'm proud of her.
The realization startled me.
Pride was something I associated with people I knew well. Friends. Family. People whose journeys I had watched closely.
And yet, here it was—directed at someone whose name I didn't even know.
Before I could process that contradiction, footsteps approached.
Loud ones.
Confident ones.
The sharp sound of shoes against the classroom floor cut through the stillness around us.
"Broooo," Jayson's voice rang out before I even saw him. "This paper is going to be tricky."
He dropped into the seat nearby, bag thudding against the desk, energy spilling everywhere he went. The contrast was immediate. The space felt louder now. Messier.
He waved at me, said something about expected questions, then waved again and moved on toward his seat, still talking to someone else.
She watched him go.
Then she looked back at me.
"Do you know him?" she asked.
"Yes," I nodded. "He's my friend."
She tilted her head slightly, considering something. The movement was subtle, but I noticed it—the way she always seemed to think before speaking, never wasting words.
"How do you know him?" I asked.
She explained simply. They had been classmates in ninth standard, before she shifted to another district for further studies.
That sentence landed heavier than I expected.
She studied here before.
In this town.
In these same streets.
Something about that unsettled me—not negatively, just… deeply.
She wasn't an outsider the way I had unconsciously assumed.
She belonged here.
Even if she left.
Which meant this place held memories for her I knew nothing about.
Faces. Classrooms. Friendships.
A whole version of her life that existed before I ever noticed her.
Before I could ask anything more, the bell rang.
Sharp. Final.
The sound cut through the room like a command.
Time snapped back into place.
Papers were distributed. The invigilator's voice filled the hall. Chairs shifted into exam posture.
My pen touched the paper.
But my mind didn't.
The paper lay in front of me, questions printed neatly, waiting.
Yet all I could feel was her presence beside me—the subtle warmth, the faint movement when she adjusted her posture, the soft brush of fabric when she shifted her arm.
I wanted to speak again.
Not something important.
Anything.
Just to keep the thread alive.
My eyes flicked to one of the questions. I leaned slightly toward her, lowering my voice.
"Can you show me this answer?"
She didn't look surprised.
Didn't pause.
Didn't question.
She simply nodded.
And slid her answer sheet toward me.
The paper made a faint sound as it moved across the desk—soft, almost intimate.
That sound did something to me.
It felt like permission.
Not just academically.
Emotionally.
I glanced at her writing. Clean. Structured. Confident.
"No questions. No rejection. Just yes."
Something inside me loosened.
Minutes passed.
Then I noticed something.
She was writing answers from chapters I was supposed to learn.
I glanced at her page again.
Then at mine.
A laugh rose inside my chest, silent but genuine.
So she learned everything too.
Just like me.
That realization made me feel closer to her than any conversation could have.
But closeness came with chaos.
My handwriting worsened.
My speed slowed.
My concentration fractured.
At one point, I whispered, barely audible,
"Can I copy this answer?"
She didn't even look at me.
Didn't react.
She just moved her paper slightly—enough.
No judgment.
No attitude.
Just silent permission.
The exam ended.
And then—
The boy came.
Tall. Neatly dressed. Confident without being loud.
They spoke briefly.
Casually.
And something cold slipped into my chest.
Not jealousy.
Not anger.
Confusion.
Questions.
Who is he?
How does she know him?
Why does it feel like he belongs there?
I looked away.
I had no right to feel anything.
I didn't even know her name.
Yet when I saw her smile at her sister moments later, that calm returned—mixed now with uncertainty.
Before she left, I asked one last question, just to hold onto the moment.
"What about the chapters?"
"Why did you study the first four?"
She smiled.
A small one.
Quiet.
"Because I wanted to."
That smile stayed with me long after she walked away.
And for the first time, I realized that wanting to know someone could feel heavier than wanting to be known.