Wait it not ended..
The morning of last week in February felt heavier than usual. It wasn't just the cold air that clung to our uniforms or the scattered yawns among the students. It was something else—something unspoken but clearly felt. The weight of knowing this was the last official day of the semester sat silently on everyone's shoulders.
I reached college a little earlier than usual, walking slowly through the corridor that had, over the months, become a gallery of memories. Laughter, tension, awkward silences, and random chaos had filled
these hallways—today, they felt too quiet. Like the college itself was bracing for change.
As I entered the lab, the atmosphere was relaxed yet strange. People chatted, clicked pictures, some played games on their phones,
and others sat quietly. No one mentioned it out loud, but we all knew: after this, everything could be different. Some of us might not return. Some friendships might fade. And some feelings… might stay buried.
She was there. Sitting with her group, laughing, a little too loudly—as if she was trying to cover something up. Our eyes met for a moment, just a second. No smile, no wave, just that familiar silence. But her eyes… they told a different story. A mix of questions, confessions never
spoken, and words left hanging for too long.
I turned away before it could become more. No need to start something when everything was ending.
During the lab session, we hardly spoke. Just the usual "you finished this code?" It felt —like
we were actors playing our final roles, afraid to improvise.
But what happened after the lab ended will stay with me forever.
As everyone began to pack their bags and leave, she walked over to the desk where I was still sitting. No one else noticed. She didn't
speak right away. Just stood there, holding her notebook close to her chest like a shield.
"You still haven't asked me what I was going to say that day," she said quietly.
I looked up, surprised. "What day?"
She smiled weakly. "The day before the practical exam. You saw it in my eyes. I was about to say something... but I didn't."
I stayed silent.
She looked away, then back at me. "I don't know what's going to happen next semester. But... I didn't want to leave without saying this."
Pause. Deep breath.
"I liked you. Not just liked. I felt something I didn't understand. And I was scared. Scared because you were always calm, always
friendly with everyone. I didn't want to risk becoming just another 'funny memory to you."
I didn't know what to say. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air too thick to breathe.
But before I could respond, she smiled again—this time, sadly. "You don't have to say anything. I just wanted to clear my heart."
She turned and walked away, her bag slung over her shoulder, her hair bouncing with each step.
And just like that… she was gone.
I sat there for a while longer, unable to move. The classroom slowly emptied, the noise faded, and I was left with nothing but the
silence and a strange, aching thought: What if I had said something earlier? .What if I had taken that one chance?
That evening, as I walked out of the college gates, the sun was setting, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink. It felt like the
universe was closing a chapter right in front of me.
The semester had ended.
But something else had just begun.
One year completed in may end
This is a new semester as July , one month leave after a day start .
The days that followed felt like gentle ripples in
water—quiet, calm, yet hiding undercurrents. I had begun to notice the rhythm of our college life shifting, even if slightly. There were whispers in the hallways, some louder than others. About us. About me. About her. But more than that—there was something within me that had begun to stir.
The new classrooms still smelled of fresh marker ink and a bit of leftover tension from the last exams. But it wasn't the books or notes
that held my attention anymore. It was her—her laughter echoing down the corridor, her eyes searching for someone in the crowd, sometimes stopping at me. Sometimes not.
That day, in the lab, she didn't sit next to me like usual. My heart dropped for a second, but I didn't show it. She sat two benches away.
But she looked. Once. Then again. Then not again.
I pretended to focus on the system screen in front of me, the interface blinking dull and blue, reflecting faintly in my glasses. Inside,
I felt a strange coldness, like something was slipping.
The second week in july ,
It was raining. Not heavily—just a soft drizzle that left silver streaks across the windowpanes. We were in the same again, and this time, she sat beside me. Just like the old times.
"Hey..." she whispered, her voice barely above the rain's hum.
"Hmm?"
"Do you think things change, or do people change first?"
It wasn't a question for debate. It was something deeper. Maybe she was talking about us, or about herself, or maybe something entirely different. But the way she looked at me—it held a storm.
"I think… sometimes people change because they need to, not because they want to," I replied.
She didn't say anything back. She just gave a soft nod and turned to her notebook. But I saw her write down something on the last page.
After same days.
We laughed again that day.
It was after class. The sky had turned golden, and the corridors echoed with tired students and unfinished jokes. I made a lame pun
about our professor's hairstyle and she burst out laughing—louder than she should've, and longer than she usually does. Heads turned. But for that moment, it felt like the world was watching us laugh.
I knew something was healing.
But healing isn't always smooth. That day, one of our classmates made a teasing comment—"You two are like a married couple, always fighting, always together."
She didn't laugh.
Instead, she got quiet. Looked at me. Then looked away.
The rest of the day, she was silent. Even in the bus. Even in the group chat.
Maybe we were too obvious. Maybe we weren't enough. I didn't know.
That night, I dreamed again. She stood near the lab window in my dream, her back turned to me. "I waited," she said, "but maybe I waited for nothing." I woke up in sweat.
A new topic was introduced in class—'Digital Emotion Recognition Systems.' Funny, I thought. If only we had a system that could read real emotions, not just data. Maybe then I'd know what she was feeling.
She wasn't in class that day.
I sent a message.
"Everything okay?"
No reply.
That whole day, I felt the weight of silence. Heavier than words. Louder than arguments.
After two days .
She returned.
Smiling. Acting normal. Like nothing happened.
But I could see it. Her smile didn't reach her eyes. Her jokes were shorter. And she didn't sit beside me.
That day, she told her friend something. I wasn't supposed to hear it. But I did.
"He doesn't understand… or maybe he doesn't want to."
That night, I didn't sleep.
Something shifted again.
This time, not in her. But in me.
I stopped waiting for her to make the first move. I started writing. A letter. Not on paper. In my notebook. My thoughts. My truths. All
the unsaid things.
"If I ever mattered… if we ever mattered… then tell me. Or walk away. But don't stay in between. I can't live in 'maybe' forever."
I didn't give it to her. Not yet. But it was there. Ready. Waiting.
Like me.