That evening, Joya perched on the rooftop, listening to Rangamati's distant sounds. The lake looked calm, but her mind was restless. Sudom's note from days ago kept returning—gentle, yet incomplete, like a sentence left unfinished.
She picked up her phone, typed a message, then erased it. Finally, she sent: "Thanks for the note. It meant a lot." Her fingers trembled slightly.
Minutes passed in silence.
Inside her room, her younger brother Bijoy knocked and asked if dinner was ready. Joya answered without turning her head, her eyes fixed on the road below, hoping to spot Sudom's bicycle appearing from the corner. He sometimes visited their neighborhood, claiming he liked the nearby tea shop—but Joya's heart knew a different reason.
The phone buzzed.
Sudom replied: "I wanted to talk today, but you left early. Can we meet tomorrow after school?"
"Tomorrow." The word felt near yet terrifying. Joya replied: "Okay, see you then." She did not ask what he wanted to say. Some questions were too risky to open.
The next day, corridors buzzed with rumors. A girl from another section supposedly asked about Sudom, planning a small gift. Joya overheard while washing her hands; the sound of the tap seemed suddenly too loud.
When Sudom finally reached her desk, he seemed different—more thoughtful, almost nervous. "After the last class, okay?" he whispered.
Before the bell rang, the teacher called him to the office. His bag remained open, and inside peeked a small wrapped box tied with a blue ribbon, without a name.
Was it for her? Or someone else?
The bell rang. Students poured into the corridor. Joya lingered, eyes fixed on the mysterious box. Her heart whispered stories her mind could not confirm.
By evening, mist returned over the hills. Joya sat by her window, Bijoy quietly reading beside her. She wrote several private lines meant only for Sudom—lines about the road, dust rising from bicycle wheels, and the quiet distance in his smile. Would he read them? Or would she have to speak aloud someday?
Rain cannot wash away everything. Some words wait for voices.
Night settled over Rangamati. Joya folded her thoughts like paper cranes and kept them under her pillow. Tomorrow, she would try another small gesture—maybe braver than a note, quieter than a shout.
Would Sudom finally understand her silence?
Or would her heart continue its patient journey toward him?
The answer lingered, somewhere between day and night, just like their story. And Joya, step by step, was learning to cross that bridge alone.