The sun wasn't up yet, but the air already felt heavy. Something about this day told me it wouldn't go like the others.
College was open after thus break, and everyone came back carrying something—memories, regrets, hope, or in my case… confusion.
I walked into class with a calm face, but inside, I was restless. I hadn't seen her since the last day before vacation.
I didn't text, didn't call. Not because I didn't want to, but because I was afraid of what it would lead to. Would it ruin the bond we were starting to build?
She came a little late that day, casually walking in, bag over one shoulder, hair still a bit wet—probably in a rush. She smiled at her friends, then saw me.
That moment.
It was less than a second. But the way her eyes paused on me, and her smile faded just a little, said more than words. I knew she noticed something had changed.
She sat a few rows ahead of me like always, and I found myself just watching her.
Not stalking. Just observing her laugh, her eyes, her small moments of silence and everything.
During the lab session, I was setting up the experiment when she walked in beside me.
"You didn't message during the holidays," she said softly, not looking directly at me.
I fumbled with the test tube, acting like I didn't hear clearly. "Huh .,?"
She turned to me, eyes sharp. "You heard me."
I looked up. "I thought maybe you needed space," I replied, voice low.
She smiled, but it wasn't a happy one. "Space? From what?"
And now I was stuck. I couldn't say what I wanted to—how much I thought about her, how much I wanted to hear her voice.
I couldn't confess. Not like this. So I shrugged, pretending to laugh it off. "Just didn't want to disturb."
"Next time," she said, walking away, "disturb me."
Her words hit hard.
The next few days, I tried to act normal, but I caught her watching me more than once. During group assignments, her words came softer.
During breaks, her presence lingered longer.
On september, our section had a mini cultural practice. Most of us stayed back, and she was part of the music team.
I didn't have much to do, so I sat at the back, watching her sing. Her voice wasn't perfect, but there was something raw in it—honest, like her.
Afterward, we all sat near the courtyard, cracking jokes, sipping tea. Someone from our class asked me directly, "Are you into her?"
I didn't answer. I looked at her. She wasn't looking back.
Later that evening, while heading out, she walked beside me. No words. Just walking. Then suddenly, "If someone likes someone, and the other person doesn't know how to react, what should they do?"
I stopped. Looked at her.
"Are we talking about someone else?" I asked, almost breathless.
She didn't answer. She smiled and walked ahead.
That night, I couldn't sleep. My heart knew something was beginning. But whether it would bloom or break—I didn't know yet.
The college corridors echoed with a strange silence that day. It was —a day that had been replaying in my mind for weeks.
I had imagined conversations, scenarios, even dramatic confessions.
But reality had its own quiet way of surprising me.
I arrived early, hoping to avoid the usual rush. But deep inside, I wanted to see her—before the day drowned in lectures and lab hours.
I wasn't sure what I'd say. Maybe I wouldn't need to. Maybe she'd say something first.
She didn't.
We crossed paths during the morning break. Her eyes met mine. No words. Just a soft nod. Not cold, not warm—just… neutral.
The same smile she gave everyone. The one that used to feel special when it was just for me. Now, it felt like a formality.
I wanted to ask, "Do you remember?"
I wanted to say, "That moment in the lab… what was it?"
I wanted to scream, "Why are we pretending nothing happened?"
But I didn't.
The rest of the day passed like a slow dream.
Even my friends sensed something was off.
We cracked our usual jokes. Laughed louder than necessary.
But my mind kept drifting back—to that silence. That look. That emptiness in between.
When college ended, I stood near the gate, hoping she'd pass by again. Hoping for… anything. But she had already gone.
That night, I sat on my bed staring at the calling. All the words I didn't say echoed back at me.
And maybe, just maybe, she was lying on her bed too—thinking about the same moment.
But thinking wasn't enough anymore.
Something had changed.
And silence, no matter how gentle, was now louder than ever.
The next day.
The cold morning air brushed against my skin as I stepped out, my jacket barely enough to keep me warm.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I already knew who it was.
You.
Just a "Good morning ", nothing more. But that was enough to make my chest tighten.
It was like our old rhythm was still beating quietly beneath the silence we had been forcing.
I replied, short and sweet, "Morning, how are you?"
You didn't take long to respond.
"I'm okay. I had a dream last night. We were laughing... the way we used to."
I stared at that text for a few seconds. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
"We were laughing... the way we used to."
It hit hard.
I typed back,
"Maybe we can laugh like that again."
No reply. Not immediately. Maybe you didn't expect me to say that.
Maybe you were afraid of where that would lead. Or maybe, like me, you were wondering if we were both walking the edge of something we thought we left behind.