Morning arrived slowly, as if even the sun wasn't fully convinced it was time.
Light seeped into the room in thin, pale lines, slipping through the small gaps in the curtains and settling gently on the wall opposite my bed. Dust floated lazily in the air, catching the light for a second before disappearing again. The ceiling fan above me spun at its usual pace, its faint clicking sound steady and familiar, like a heartbeat that belonged to the room itself.
I opened my eyes.
For a few seconds, I didn't move.
I wasn't fully awake yet—not asleep either. I lay still, staring upward, my body heavy, my mind suspended in that quiet space between sleep and thought where nothing is urgent and everything feels distant.
And in that space—
there was only one thought.
What is she doing right now?
And how do I even know her name?
The question didn't arrive dramatically. It didn't shout. It didn't rush.
It was already there.
Waiting.
I closed my eyes again, hoping it would fade the way half-formed dreams usually do. Instead, it sharpened. The moment I tried to push it away, it settled deeper, like a word on the tip of the tongue that refuses to be ignored.
I exhaled slowly.
This is stupid, I told myself.
There were a thousand things I should have been thinking about. The exam. The syllabus. The chapters I still needed to revise. The work waiting for me later in the day. My routine—steady, predictable, reliable.
And yet, all of it faded behind that one simple absence.
A name.
I sat up, the mattress creaking softly beneath me. My feet touched the cool floor, grounding me for a moment. I rubbed my face with both hands, trying to shake off the lingering haze of sleep.
Get up, I ordered myself. Do something.
I walked to the bathroom, splashing water onto my face. The cold stung slightly, sharp enough to pull me fully awake. I looked at my reflection in the mirror—same tired eyes, same familiar expression. Nothing about me looked different.
But inside, something was looping.
Even while brushing my teeth, foam gathering at the corners of my mouth, the thought stayed.
What is her name?
The tap dripped rhythmically into the sink. The sound was steady, almost mocking. I rinsed my mouth, wiped my face with a towel, and stepped back into my room.
I dressed automatically.
Shirt.
Pants.
Watch.
Each movement was practiced, unconscious. I could have done it with my eyes closed. My hands knew the sequence better than my mind did.
Downstairs, the smell of food drifted in from the kitchen—warm, familiar, comforting. My mother moved about quietly, utensils clinking softly as she worked. I greeted her, sat down, ate.
I tasted the food.
But I didn't register it.
Between bites, my thoughts kept slipping away, returning to her without permission.
The way she spoke—soft, measured, never wasting words.
The way she sat during exams—straight-backed, focused, calm.
The way she helped without hesitation, without making it feel like a favor.
And behind all of it—
the fact that I didn't even know what to call her.
It bothered me more than I expected.
Names give shape to people. They make them real in a way faces alone cannot. Without a name, she felt suspended—present in my thoughts, yet unreachable, undefined.
After breakfast, I packed my books and stepped outside. The morning air was cool, brushing against my skin lightly. Somewhere down the street, a scooter passed by. A shopkeeper pulled up his shutters. Life moved forward without pause.
I walked, my steps slow, my mind loud.
By the time afternoon arrived, the restlessness hadn't faded.
If anything, it had grown quieter—and heavier.
I sat on my bed, books open in front of me, but my eyes kept drifting toward my phone lying beside the pillow. The screen was dark, reflecting faint outlines of the room.
One name floated up from memory.
Jayson.
He studied with her in ninth standard. He knew her from before. Out of everyone I knew, he was the only direct link between us.
The realization felt obvious.
Too obvious.
My fingers hovered over the phone, but I didn't pick it up.
A different set of thoughts surfaced, sharper this time.
What will he think?
Why am I suddenly asking about her?
What if he misunderstands?
What if he laughs?
The possibilities lined up neatly, each one more uncomfortable than the last.
I imagined the conversation going wrong—him teasing me, questioning my intentions, reading more into my curiosity than there actually was. The idea made my chest tighten slightly.
I put the phone face-down.
"No… not now," I muttered under my breath.
I opened my notebook again, forcing myself to read. The words blurred together. I reread the same paragraph three times and still couldn't remember what it said.
The thought didn't leave.
It didn't rush me.
It waited.
Patiently.
By evening, the sky outside shifted from pale blue to soft orange. Light stretched across the walls, then slowly withdrew. The day cooled, shadows lengthening across the floor.
My patience ran out.
I picked up the phone again.
This time, my hands didn't move immediately. I just held it, feeling its weight, the smoothness of the screen beneath my thumb. My heartbeat felt louder than it should have been for such a simple action.
I unlocked the screen.
Typed his number.
Erased it.
Typed again.
Paused.
The cursor blinked patiently, indifferent to my hesitation.
What if Jayson reacts weird?
What if he asks why?
What if I can't answer?
I closed my eyes briefly, inhaled, then exhaled slowly.
Curiosity outweighed fear.
Not by much.
But enough.
I pressed call.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Each ring stretched longer than the last.
My chest tightened.
Then—
"Hello bro?"
His voice was familiar, casual, grounding.
For a second, my nervousness swallowed my words entirely. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. I stared at the wall, suddenly aware of how quiet the room was, how loud my breathing sounded.
I forced myself to speak.
We started with safe ground.
The exam.
Preparation.
Future plans.
I laughed when expected. Responded normally. If anyone had been listening, they would have thought it was just another casual call between friends.
But my mind was counting time.
Waiting for the moment.
When the conversation began to drift toward its natural end, panic flickered briefly inside me. If I didn't ask now, I wouldn't ask at all.
My courage wavered.
Then steadied.
"Bro…" I said slowly, keeping my tone light. "That girl sitting beside me… she asked about you."
There was a pause.
Not long.
Just enough.
"What did she ask?" he said.
"Nothing special," I lied smoothly. "Just how I know you."
Another pause.
My heartbeat grew louder.
I swallowed.
Then, carefully—trying not to sound impatient, not to sound curious, not to sound like this mattered more than it should—I asked:
"By the way… what's her name?"
The silence on the other end of the call stretched just long enough to make me hold my breath.