The feeling didn't arrive all at once.
It settled.
Slowly.
Like dust after movement stops.
The classroom was emptying around me, chairs scraping back, footsteps moving toward the door in uneven rhythms. Someone laughed loudly near the front. Someone else complained about a question that "made no sense." The invigilator gathered papers with the same detached efficiency as always.
I remained seated for a moment longer than necessary.
My fingers rested on the edge of the desk, the wood cool beneath my skin. The faint imprint of her paper still seemed to exist there, like warmth that hadn't faded yet. I became aware of small things—the ache in my wrist from writing, the dryness in my eyes, the slight stiffness in my neck.
Normal sensations.
Grounding ones.
But inside me, something else was moving.
The image of her smile.
The small one.
The quiet one.
The one she gave when she said, "Because I wanted to."
It didn't feel playful.
It didn't feel teasing.
It felt intentional.
And intention—when you're not prepared for it—can be unsettling.
I stood up finally, slinging my bag over my shoulder. As I stepped into the corridor, the temperature shifted. Outside the classroom, the air felt warmer, heavier with bodies and voices and movement. Sunlight spilled in through the open windows, catching dust motes midair.
And then I saw him again.
The boy.
He stood a few feet away from her, posture relaxed, head tilted slightly as he listened. His uniform was neat in a way that felt deliberate—shirt tucked properly, sleeves pressed flat, hair combed with care but not vanity.
He didn't hover.
He didn't intrude.
He looked like he belonged exactly where he was.
That bothered me more than if he hadn't.
They spoke for a few seconds. I couldn't hear the words, but I noticed the ease with which she responded. No hesitation. No guardedness. The kind of interaction that comes from familiarity, not formality.
Something tightened in my chest.
Not sharply.
Not painfully.
Just enough to be noticed.
I told myself to look away.
I did.
For half a second.
And then I looked back again, unable to stop myself.
He said something that made her nod. She pointed slightly toward the exit. He turned and walked away without a second glance.
That was it.
No lingering.
No dramatic farewell.
No unnecessary closeness.
Which somehow made it worse.
Because it meant there was nothing to dismiss.
Nothing exaggerated.
Nothing obvious.
Just… connection.
I exhaled slowly, my breath shaky despite my effort to control it.
You're overthinking, I told myself firmly.
You don't even know her.
That should have been enough to settle it.
It wasn't.
She turned toward her sister then, their shoulders aligning naturally as they spoke in low voices. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but the sound of her laughter—soft, brief—reached me anyway.
It didn't hurt.
But it did something else.
It reminded me that there were versions of her I hadn't seen.
Versions she didn't offer easily.
I stepped closer without realizing it, stopping at a respectful distance. When she noticed me, her expression shifted subtly—attention sharpening, posture straightening just a fraction.
I asked softly, "Who is she?"
I was pointing at her sister, but the question carried more weight than that.
"You can say… best friend," she replied after a beat.
Then, with that same small smile, she added, "She is my father's sister's daughter. So, she is my sister."
Something eased inside me.
Not relief.
Understanding.
"Oh," I said quietly. "So that's how."
She nodded.
The conversation ended naturally there, as if both of us understood that no more explanation was needed.
Before she left, before the moment could fully slip away, I asked one last thing—partly out of curiosity, partly because I wasn't ready for silence yet.
"What about the chapters?"
"Why did you study the first four—the ones assigned to me?"
She paused.
The corridor noise filled the gap—footsteps, voices, someone calling out a name. A breeze moved through the open space, lifting the ends of her hair slightly.
Then she smiled again.
That same quiet smile.
"Because I wanted to."
Nothing more.
No justification.
No teasing.
Just choice.
Her sister called her then, and they turned together, walking toward the exit. Their steps matched instinctively, like they had practiced it their whole lives.
I watched them go.
I always did.
I waited for her to turn back.
She never did.
Not once.
Not today.
I followed them outside after a moment, the sunlight sharper now, the heat pressing down on the campus. Near the gate, I saw something that made my stomach dip again.
The same boy.
She was speaking to him once more—this time asking him to call someone, her hand gesturing toward a phone. He nodded, already dialing.
That single action told me more than words could have.
She trusted him.
Comfortably.
I didn't like the feeling that rose in response.
It wasn't jealousy.
Not exactly.
It was uncertainty mixed with a strange sense of displacement—as if I had misjudged my place in something I hadn't even entered yet.
Before my thoughts could spiral further, a familiar hand clapped down on my shoulder.
"Bro!"
Shivis.
He was slightly out of breath, eyes bright with curiosity.
"Who is the girl sitting beside my brother?" he asked, grinning.
I pointed silently.
He followed my gaze, then laughed. "Ahh. That one."
I groaned. "Stop."
We walked toward the bike stand together, Shivis talking nonstop, teasing me with exaggerated theories. He mentioned casually that her sister had been sitting next to him in a previous paper.
I barely heard him.
My attention stayed fixed on her.
She climbed onto her brother's bike, adjusting her bag, holding the side carefully as he started the engine. The bike pulled away slowly, then disappeared beyond the gate.
I kept watching.
Long after she was gone.
On the way home, Shivis asked again, "So? Name? Anything?"
I told him about her studying here before ninth standard, about the rival school, about how that small detail felt strangely important.
"And her sister's name?" I asked suddenly.
He frowned, thinking. "I forgot, bro… wait… something like Shris… maybe Sarene."
The sound of it clicked somewhere deep inside me.
Not certainty.
Possibility.
A small one.
Fifty–fifty.
Enough to matter.
Seven days remained for the next exam.
Seven long days.
That night, lying on my bed, the ceiling fan spinning slowly above me, thoughts refused to settle.
What will I ask her next time?
What if I say something wrong?
Should I ask Jayson about her?
Who was that boy?
And beneath all of it, quieter but heavier—
What does she think of me?
If anything at all.
I didn't know what would happen next.
But one thing was clear—
This girl had unknowingly turned my calm, planned life into a story I couldn't stop thinking about.