I didn't know it yet—but the next time we spoke, silence wouldn't be enough anymore.
The realization didn't arrive like a thought.
It arrived like a sensation.
A subtle pressure somewhere behind my ribs, not painful, not sharp—just present enough to make itself known. I felt it as I walked away from the exam hall, as the corridor widened into open space and the noise of the campus washed over me again.
Voices overlapped.
Bikes started.
Parents called out names.
Life resumed its careless pace.
But something inside me lagged behind.
I followed Shivis toward the bike stand, my steps slower than usual. The sun sat high now, heat pressing gently against my skin, the smell of dust and petrol thick in the air. Sweat gathered at the back of my neck, and I adjusted my bag strap absently, barely listening as Shivis talked.
"You wrote that last answer?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"Same logic?"
"Yes."
"Good."
That was it.
Normally, he would have kept going—commentary, jokes, predictions. But even he seemed to sense that today didn't require noise. He kicked the bike stand down, waited while I climbed on, then started the engine without another word.
The road stretched out in front of us, familiar and unchanging. Trees passed. Shops blurred. A stray dog darted across the street and disappeared into shade.
I watched everything without really seeing it.
My mind was still in the classroom.
Not on the questions.
On the space between us.
I replayed her last words—"Next one is tougher."
Not advice.
Not concern.
Just information.
And yet, it felt like more than that.
It felt like continuity.
Like she expected us to still be sitting side by side when the next exam arrived.
That assumption, quiet and unspoken, settled into me in a way I hadn't anticipated.
At home, the afternoon passed slowly.
I ate lunch without appetite, answered questions automatically, and retreated to my room under the pretense of resting. The fan hummed above me, its sound constant and dull, while sunlight crept across the floor in a lazy diagonal.
I lay back, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time in days, I didn't immediately think of her.
Instead, I thought about myself.
About how easily my life had been planned before this.
Study.
Exams.
Results.
Next step.
Everything had a place. A sequence.
And now—without disrupting anything outwardly—something had slipped in between the lines.
Not chaos.
Possibility.
The thought made me uncomfortable.
And curious.
That evening, I went to Shivis's house again, notebooks tucked under my arm. The air outside was cooler now, carrying the faint smell of damp earth and evening food from nearby houses. Children shouted somewhere down the street, their laughter sharp and fleeting.
We sat on the floor, books open.
"Okay," Shivis said, stretching his legs. "This one is actually tough."
I nodded, leaning closer to the notebook. The pages smelled faintly of ink and paper, familiar and grounding.
We studied seriously that day.
No jokes. No unnecessary debates.
At some point, while explaining a concept, Shivis paused and looked at me.
"You're different," he said.
I frowned. "How?"
He shrugged. "Quieter. Not distracted—just… aware."
I didn't deny it.
He didn't push further.
When I walked home later, the streetlights flickered on one by one, bathing the road in warm yellow light. Shadows stretched long and thin across the pavement. My footsteps echoed softly, rhythmic and steady.
I realized then that I wasn't waiting for the next exam just to see her.
I was waiting to see if the feeling would change.
If the curiosity would fade.
If the restlessness would settle.
It didn't.
The days that followed were quieter.
No unexpected meetings.
No new information.
Just preparation.
And anticipation that no longer felt impatient—but deliberate.
When the next exam day arrived, I woke before the alarm again. The sky outside was pale, the air cool enough to raise goosebumps along my arms. I moved through my routine carefully, deliberately, as if each action mattered more than usual.
Shivis arrived early.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
And I meant it.
At the campus, everything felt familiar now—the notice board, the corridors, the slow build of tension as students gathered. I checked the seating list out of habit rather than hope.
Same hall.
Same seat.
I didn't react.
I simply accepted it as fact.
Inside, the classroom felt different—not quieter, not louder—just settled. Like everyone had reached the point where panic was no longer useful.
I sat down.
Waited.
She arrived a few minutes later, as she always did.
Same calm steps. Same measured movements. Same quiet presence.
She sat beside me and glanced my way.
"Good morning," she said.
The words were simple.
Ordinary.
But they landed differently.
"Good morning," I replied.
And in that moment, I understood something clearly for the first time.
Silence had carried us far.
But it wouldn't carry us forever.
The exam began, and we wrote—focused, steady, in sync. Once or twice, our eyes met over a question, and this time, neither of us looked away too quickly.
There was no paper exchange today.
No whisper.
Just shared awareness.
When the bell rang, we stood together, the movement natural now.
As she packed her things, she hesitated.
Not enough to draw attention.
Enough for me to notice.
She looked at me.
And this time, there was no neutrality.
There was intent.
"After this," she said quietly, "we should talk."
The words settled into the space between us, heavy and unmistakable.
I nodded.
"Yes," I said.
She smiled—not the small one this time, but something closer to it. Still restrained. Still hers.
And then she left.
I remained standing for a moment longer, the noise of the classroom returning around me in waves.
Because now—
Waiting was no longer passive.
It was preparation.