The first question sat in front of me, printed neatly, demanding attention the way it always did. My pen hovered for a second before touching the paper, and when it finally did, the movement felt slightly delayed—like my body was responding a fraction of a moment after my thoughts.
I wrote.
Slowly at first.
Then steadier.
The rhythm returned the way it always did once the pen started moving. Lines formed. Answers took shape. The familiar comfort of structure wrapped around me, grounding me just enough to function.
But my awareness stayed divided.
Part of me was inside the paper—recalling points, shaping sentences, choosing words carefully.
The other part stayed alert to the space beside me.
She sat the same way she always did. Straight-backed. Focused. Calm. Her pen moved with that steady confidence I had come to recognize, never rushing, never hesitating. The faint sound of paper shifting when she turned a page felt louder to me than it should have.
Every few minutes, I caught myself glancing sideways without meaning to.
Not staring.
Just checking.
She didn't look back.
Not yet.
The ceiling fan above us rotated slowly, pushing warm air down in uneven waves. The classroom smelled faintly of chalk, paper, and something metallic—maybe the ink from freshly printed sheets. Outside, distant traffic hummed like a background thought that never quite entered the room.
I wrote two full answers before I realized my jaw was tight.
I loosened it deliberately, inhaled quietly, and continued.
A few rows behind me, I sensed movement.
Shivis.
I didn't need to look to know what he was doing. I could almost feel his eyes burning into the back of my head, waiting for something—anything—to happen. The thought made me suppress a smile and tighten my focus again.
Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
The exam settled into that middle phase where time stretches and compresses at the same time. Too slow to be comfortable. Too fast to be careless.
That's when the opportunity appeared.
One question.
Just one.
The kind that wasn't difficult—but wasn't obvious either. The kind that made you pause, reread, and reconsider.
I leaned slightly toward her, lowering my voice instinctively.
"Can you show me this answer?"
She looked at me once.
Just once.
Not surprised. Not irritated.
Then she tilted her answer sheet just enough for me to see.
The paper slid a few centimeters across the desk, the sound soft but unmistakable. That small movement sent something warm through my chest—not excitement, not relief—recognition.
Trust.
I copied slowly.
Not because I needed the time.
Because I wanted it.
Each second felt borrowed, delicate. I could feel her presence more clearly now—the warmth from her arm, the faint scent of soap mixed with paper, the subtle shift in air when she adjusted her posture.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Shivis.
His eyes were wide.
Too wide.
He was watching me like he was witnessing a scene from a movie, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly open in exaggerated disbelief.
I ignored him completely.
We exchanged a few more quiet moments like that—short glances, small gestures, a whispered correction here, a nodded agreement there. Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious.
But for me, it felt like the fastest exam I had ever written.
When the final bell rang, it startled me.
Not because I wasn't expecting it—but because I wasn't ready.
The sound cut through the room sharply, pulling everyone back into movement. Pens stopped. Papers were collected. Chairs scraped back. Voices rose in uneven bursts as the exam officially ended.
My heart started beating faster.
Not because of the paper.
Because now, there were no excuses left.
She packed her things quietly, just as she always did. Her sister called out to her softly from the back, already standing.
This was it.
If I didn't speak now, I wouldn't get another chance.
Shivis appeared beside me almost immediately, like he had been waiting for the bell more eagerly than I had.
"Bro," he whispered urgently, leaning close, "now or never. Ask her name. At least her name, bro."
He didn't whisper softly.
He didn't even try.
His voice carried.
Too far.
My heartbeat jumped straight into my throat.
I felt heat rush into my face, my ears burning. For a moment, I considered pretending I hadn't heard him. Pretending nothing was happening. Letting the moment pass like so many others had.
But my body had already moved.
I swallowed.
Inhaled.
Exhaled.
She was packing her bag when I spoke.
"Can I ask you something?"
My voice came out softer than I expected. Unsteady, but clear enough.
She looked up.
And the room faded.
Not completely—but enough.
"Nervously…" I began, my words tripping slightly over each other, "what is your name?"
The silence that followed felt heavier than any exam hall quiet.
Two seconds.
That's all it was.
But those two seconds stretched endlessly.
She looked at me like I had asked something strange—but not wrong. Her expression wasn't annoyed. Not angry.
Just… surprised.
As if she hadn't expected this question now, after all this time.
Finally, she spoke—calm, almost lightly teasing.
"You know me since so many days," she said, "and you're asking my name now?"
My face burned.
"…Actually… I didn't get a chance…" I replied, my voice quieter now.
She sighed lightly—not impatiently, not dramatically—then said,
"Anyway… my name is Nikita Rajawat."
Even though I already knew her name—at least part of it—from Jayson, hearing it from her felt completely different.
It wasn't information anymore.
It was real.
It belonged to her voice.
"Oh—sorry," I said quickly, awkwardly. "I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Niks."
She nodded politely.
And for a brief, perfect moment, everything felt aligned.
Balanced.
Complete.
And then—because courage stayed just a second too long—I decided to ask one more thing.