The house was quiet in the way it always was at night, but my mind refused to match it.
The ceiling fan moved in slow, uneven circles above me, its faint clicking sound marking time more clearly than a clock ever could. Shadows stretched and shrank across the walls with every rotation. Somewhere outside, a dog barked once and then stopped, as if even it had decided there was nothing left to say.
Seven days.
The number echoed inside my head without rhythm, without urgency—just present, like a weight resting gently on the chest.
I turned onto my side, the mattress creaking softly beneath me. The pillow was warm, already shaped by the hours I'd spent lying there thinking instead of sleeping. My eyes closed, but my thoughts stayed open.
What would I ask her next time?
The question returned again, nudging at me, not demanding an answer but refusing to leave without acknowledgment. Every possible sentence felt either too small or too much. Too ordinary or too revealing.
How was your exam?
Too late. Already asked.
Did you understand that question?
Too obvious.
What are you planning to do after exams?
Too personal.
Each imagined question dissolved before it could take shape.
I sighed quietly, the sound barely audible even to myself.
It wasn't that I was afraid of talking to her.
It was that I didn't want to disturb something that felt balanced.
The silence between us wasn't empty. It was structured. Intentional. Like space deliberately left untouched.
And then there was the other question—the one I tried not to think about.
Who was that boy?
I replayed the image unwillingly: the way he stood, the ease in his posture, the way she spoke to him without hesitation. The way he nodded and walked away without ceremony.
There was no drama in it.
Which made it impossible to dismiss.
I stared at the wall, tracing the faint crack near the corner with my eyes. You don't have a reason to feel anything, I reminded myself. You're not part of her life.
The thought was logical.
It didn't help.
Sleep eventually came, but lightly, the kind that breaks apart at the smallest sound.
Morning arrived with pale light slipping through the curtains, dust particles floating lazily in its path. I woke before the alarm again, the familiar restlessness already sitting beside me.
The days that followed moved slowly and quickly at the same time.
Morning revisions. Afternoon distractions. Evenings at Shivis's house.
The routine remained unchanged, but my awareness sharpened. Every sound felt slightly louder. Every pause slightly longer.
Studying became mechanical.
I understood the material. I solved the problems. But my focus came in waves, not steady lines. Some moments I was fully present, writing quickly, confidently. Other moments, my pen hovered while my thoughts drifted somewhere I couldn't follow.
Shivis noticed.
"You're thinking again," he said one evening, not even looking up from his notebook.
I didn't respond.
He glanced at me. "You're doing that thing where you stare at the page but don't see it."
"I see it," I replied.
"You see through it," he corrected.
I exhaled, rubbing my eyes. The room smelled faintly of coffee and paper. Outside, the sky was darkening, the hum of insects growing louder.
"I don't know what's happening," I admitted quietly.
He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms. "You like her."
"I didn't say that."
"You don't have to," he said. "You're not confused. You're just careful."
That word stayed with me.
Careful.
It fit better than I liked.
The remaining days passed like this—filled with preparation, interrupted by thought. I didn't see her. I didn't hear about her. And yet, she stayed present in absence.
By the time the next exam day arrived, the restlessness had settled into something calmer, heavier.
Acceptance.
I woke early again, the air cool against my skin as I got ready. The mirror reflected the same face, the same tired eyes—but something behind them had shifted. Not excitement. Not fear.
Expectation.
Shivis arrived on time, tapping his fingers against the handle of his bike while waiting.
"You ready?" he asked.
"As I'll ever be," I replied.
The ride to college was quieter than usual. The road stretched ahead of us, familiar yet charged with anticipation. I watched the surroundings blur past—the tea stalls opening, the vendors setting up, the early students already walking toward the gate.
When we reached the campus, I felt it immediately.
That same subtle tension in the air.
The notice board was crowded again. Names, numbers, classrooms.
I scanned quickly.
Same hall.
Same row.
Same seat.
Beside hers.
My breath left me slowly.
I didn't smile.
I didn't celebrate.
I just accepted it.
Inside the hall, the atmosphere was different from before—less chaotic, more resigned. Students moved with quieter urgency now, the weight of accumulated exams pressing down on everyone.
I reached my desk early and sat down.
The seat beside me was empty.
I placed my bag down, arranged my pens, opened my notebook—but my eyes kept drifting toward the doorway.
Each time it opened, my attention lifted involuntarily.
Not her.
Not yet.
The sound of footsteps approached again.
This time, I didn't look.
I didn't need to.
I felt the shift in the air.
She arrived quietly, just as always, taking her seat beside me with the same calm precision. The faint sound of her bag touching the floor, the soft rustle of paper—it all felt familiar now.
Comfortingly so.
She glanced at me briefly.
A nod.
Nothing more.
And yet, it felt like acknowledgment.
Like continuity.
The exam began.
Pens moved. Pages turned. Silence settled.
But something inside me was steadier now.
I didn't rush to speak.
I didn't overthink every movement.
I wrote.
She wrote.
Side by side.
Occasionally, our eyes met briefly over a question. Once, she leaned slightly closer, the faint scent of soap and paper drifting into my space again.
My focus wavered, then returned.
Time passed.
When the exam ended, we stood almost simultaneously.
She packed her things, then paused.
Just a second.
Enough to matter.
She turned slightly toward me.
"Next one," she said softly, "is tougher."
I nodded. "Yes."
That was all.
She left with her sister again, walking at the same unhurried pace. I watched her disappear into the corridor, the familiar habit returning.
But this time, something was different.
I didn't feel left behind.
I felt… included.
Not fully.
But enough.
As I stepped outside with Shivis, the sun warm against my face, I realized something quietly important.
I wasn't chasing her anymore.
I was waiting.
And sometimes, waiting is its own kind of courage.
I didn't know it yet—but the next time we spoke, silence wouldn't be enough anymore.