Knowing her name had brought her closer—but knowing her story had made me step back in quiet awe.
I stayed seated long after the call ended.
The phone lay face-up on the bed beside me, its screen dark now, reflecting nothing but a faint blur of the ceiling fan above. My fingers rested loosely in my lap, numb, as if they belonged to someone else. The room felt unchanged—same walls, same furniture, same familiar smells—but something inside me had moved, and it had not asked for permission.
Nikita.
The name no longer felt light.
It carried weight now.
Not the kind that drags you down—but the kind that makes you careful where you place your hands.
I leaned back slowly, letting my shoulders sink into the mattress. The fabric was warm beneath my palms, textured in a way I'd never noticed before. I stared up at the fan again, watching the blades blur into a single dull shape as they turned.
Her parents.
The words echoed quietly, not as sound but as meaning.
I tried—unsuccessfully—to imagine what that kind of loss felt like. Every attempt failed halfway, dissolving into abstraction. I had known difficulty. Stress. Fear of failure. Moments of loneliness.
But this?
This was different.
This was something that rearranged a person from the inside out.
Suddenly, her calm made sense in a way that left no room for doubt. It wasn't ease—it was control. Not confidence born from praise, but strength shaped by necessity.
I thought of the way she never wasted words. The way she never hesitated when making decisions. The way she waited—patiently, quietly—without needing reassurance.
Those weren't habits.
They were survival skills.
I closed my eyes.
Images rose uninvited: her sitting beside me during exams, her pen moving steadily, her focus unbroken. Her voice asking softly, "Is this correct?" Not insecurity—precision. Wanting to be right, not reassured.
And behind all of that, a life I knew nothing about.
Losses I hadn't seen.
Days I hadn't lived.
The realization humbled me.
For the first time since this all began, my curiosity softened into something else.
Responsibility.
I didn't own the right to imagine her lightly anymore.
Not after knowing what she carried.
A knock sounded faintly from the other room.
"Can you help me for a minute?" my mother called.
Her voice cut gently through my thoughts, grounding me.
"Yes," I replied, standing up quickly.
I walked out, my steps slower now, more deliberate. The house smelled of cooked rice and warm spices. Evening light filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor.
As I helped her with small chores—moving things, holding doors, passing utensils—my mind stayed present. Focused. Calm.
But underneath it all, the awareness remained.
Nikita wasn't just a thought anymore.
She was a person whose life had weight.
Later, after dinner, I returned to my room and sat at my study table. The lamp cast a soft circle of light over my notebook. I opened it, flipped to the next chapter, and read carefully.
This time, my focus didn't waver.
Not because she was gone from my thoughts—but because she had settled into a different place.
Not distraction.
Context.
I studied slowly, deliberately, as if each page deserved full attention. Outside, night deepened. Insects hummed. A distant train horn sounded and faded.
Hours passed without me noticing.
When I finally closed the notebook, my eyes felt heavy—not from exhaustion, but from fullness. I leaned back in the chair, exhaling softly.
Respect had changed the way I felt.
It made everything quieter.
More serious.
Less impulsive.
I realized then that the next time I saw her, I wouldn't rush to speak. I wouldn't search for clever questions or small excuses to keep the conversation going.
I would simply be… present.
Because knowing her story didn't make me want to move closer.
It made me want to move carefully.
That night, as I lay down, the ceiling fan spinning steadily above, my thoughts didn't scatter.
They aligned.
Nikita.
Not as a mystery.
Not as a fantasy.
But as a person whose life intersected with mine for reasons I didn't yet understand.
And for the first time since all of this began, I didn't feel impatient for what came next.
I felt prepared.
I didn't know it yet—but the next time I looked at her, I wouldn't see just the girl beside me anymore.