The last fifteen days before the final paper did not pass the way time usually did.
They didn't rush.
They didn't drag.
They hovered.
From the outside, everything appeared normal—so normal that even I believed it sometimes. I woke up every morning at the same hour, folded my blanket the same way, brushed my teeth standing in the same corner of the bathroom, and ate breakfast while listening to the same small conversations that filled our house every day. My routine stayed intact, unbroken, like a structure that refused to acknowledge any quiet disturbance beneath it.
I studied every chapter with full focus.
Not half-heartedly.
Not carelessly.
I read slowly, underlining key lines, rewriting definitions, solving questions until the answers felt natural rather than memorized. I didn't allow myself excuses. This was the final paper. Discipline mattered.
In the evenings, I played with my younger brother and sister. I let them pull me into games I pretended were boring but secretly enjoyed—their laughter loud, careless, completely untouched by exams or futures. Sometimes my brother would jump on my back without warning, and I would groan dramatically before chasing him through the room. Sometimes my sister would sit beside me, asking questions that made no sense, just to hear me explain them.
I helped my mother with daily chores.
Carried things.
Held doors.
Listened when she spoke.
I nodded at the right moments.
Answered properly.
Did everything a normal son should do.
And yet—beneath all of that—something was restless.
It arrived every night.
No matter how tired I was.
No matter how full the day had been.
It had become a habit so consistent that it felt official—like an unpaid rent my mind collected before allowing me sleep. The moment the lights went off and the house settled into silence, the same thought returned, as predictably as breathing.
What is she doing right now?
The question never demanded an answer.
It didn't even expect one.
It just stayed.
Is she studying the same chapter as me?
Is she sitting with her sister, talking quietly?
Is she tired? Calm? Focused?
Or is she also lying awake somewhere, thinking about the exam, counting chapters the way I was?
I didn't know why these thoughts came.
They didn't feel dramatic.
They didn't feel forced.
They slipped in softly, silently—like they belonged there.
Even when I tried to push them away, they returned without resistance. Not stubbornly. Patiently. As if they were part of the rhythm my mind had already accepted.
Sleep came eventually, but never without that quiet ritual.
Then the exam day arrived.
It came gently, like winter sunlight—not harsh, not sudden, just present in a way that couldn't be ignored.
I woke up early, before the alarm had a chance to ring. The house was still quiet, wrapped in that fragile silence that exists only in the early morning. I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, feeling the familiar weight of the day settle into me.
This was the last paper.
I got up, washed my face, letting the cold water sharpen my senses. I dressed carefully, packed my books, checked my admit card twice, and stepped outside to catch the morning bus to the city.
The bus rattled along the village roads, its windows open, wind brushing against my face. Fields stretched endlessly on either side, pale under the morning sky. Familiar turns appeared one after another—roads I had traveled so many times they felt like part of my memory rather than geography.
I revised chapters in my head, repeating keywords, recalling examples, stitching answers together mentally.
And then—without warning—
her face appeared.
Just for a second.
Her calm expression.
Her soft, controlled voice.
The simple way she sat and wrote answers.
I shook my head slightly, refocusing.
Concentrate.
But the more I tried to push the thought aside, the more it stayed—quiet, steady, refusing to turn into noise yet refusing to leave.
After reaching the city, I went straight to Shivis's house.
He was sitting on the floor with his notebook open, studying seriously, like the paper was going to start in ten minutes. His pen moved steadily, his eyes fixed on the page.
I laughed softly.
"Bro, get ready fast. Time is happening for the college."
He didn't even look up.
"Chill bro. There is time."
I smiled, but inside I knew the truth.
I wasn't counting minutes.
I was counting moments.
Still, I waited.
I paced around his room, pretending to revise, pretending to check my phone, pretending I wasn't restless. He took his own sweet time, calm in a way that made my impatience feel louder.
"No, we don't," I muttered under my breath.
Of course, he didn't understand what kind of countdown was happening inside my chest.
After ten long minutes of my pacing and his calmness, he finally got ready. We stepped outside, sat on his bike, and he started the engine.
As the bike moved forward, the wind hit my face, cold and grounding.
That's when Shivis spoke.
"Bro, today ask her social media. Instagram, WhatsApp—anything."
I refused instantly.
"No bro. I don't know how to talk like this. This is my first time. I can't do this."
He laughed.
"Bro, opportunity comes once. Last paper is after fifteen days. Don't miss it."
I kept saying no.
He kept saying yes.
And somewhere in between that argument, we reached the college.
He parked the bike, and before I even realized it, my eyes were already searching.
Automatically. Instinctively.
She wasn't there.
A small disappointment settled in my chest—controlled, quiet. I didn't let it grow. Exams had their own timing. People arrived when they arrived.
We walked toward the classroom.
Inside, I noticed immediately—we were assigned the same class again.
Shivis sat five benches behind me.
"Bro, now we can copy answers easily," he whispered with a grin.
I shook my head slightly. He didn't need my answers. He was smart. He just wanted fun.
My eyes, meanwhile, were doing their own job.
Searching.
And then—
I saw her.
Simple clothes. Nothing extraordinary. Yet somehow elegant in that simplicity. Calm, composed, focused—exactly the same as every exam day.
She was talking to her sister again, heads tilted slightly toward each other, voices low.
Shivis elbowed me lightly.
"Broooo… look at your face."
"Shut up," I muttered, pretending to arrange my pen carefully.
When she finally walked toward her seat, I straightened unconsciously and walked to mine as well. Behind me, Shivis started making exaggerated hand signs and expressions.
I ignored him like he didn't exist.
When she sat down beside me, I took a quiet breath and asked the most familiar question I had now:
"Learning is done?"
She looked at me and replied, exactly like last time,
"Yes. All chapters."
Then she asked, "Yours?"
I nodded.
And the exam began.
I knew the exam had started—but in my mind, something else had already begun.