Two weeks slipped by, swallowed whole by review sheets, late-night cramming, and the restless scratching of pens against paper. The classroom was no longer filled with festival chatter or playful gossip—it buzzed instead with quiet tension. Tired faces stared blankly at textbooks, hands gripped pens until the ink smudged, and sighs seemed to echo louder than laughter. Even the teachers looked weary, their voices hoarse from drilling formulas and reminders into half-asleep students.
Eli buried himself in the current, forcing his focus onto his notes, his highlighters bleeding across page after page. He made himself busy—too busy to think. During breaks, he surrounded himself with friends, joining in their jokes, keeping his smile ready like armor. He laughed when they laughed, nodded along to their stories, anything to keep the spotlight from shifting to him.
But no amount of noise could disguise the space between him and Kai.
It wasn't dramatic. There were no arguments, no harsh words. Just a subtle, quiet gap that hadn't been there before. Kai still sat with them at lunch, still joined their laughter. Yet every so often, Eli felt it—the way Kai's eyes lingered, calm and steady, like he was waiting for something Eli wasn't ready to give.
At first, their friends didn't notice. Everyone was too consumed with the stress of exams, too distracted by their own worries. But it didn't take long.
During lunch one afternoon, as the group sprawled across their usual table with trays of food and whispered complaints about test schedules, someone leaned close to Eli and nudged his shoulder.
"Hey…" they said in a low voice, careful not to draw too much attention. "Did something happen between you and Kai?"
Eli blinked, his chopsticks pausing midair. "What? No. Why?"
The friend raised a brow, lowering their voice even more. "It's just… you two used to be stuck together. Now it's like…" They trailed off, their gaze flicking briefly toward Kai, who was seated across the table, quietly eating while listening to another classmate's joke. "…like you're avoiding him."
Eli forced a laugh, shaking his head quickly. "Don't be ridiculous. We're fine. Seriously."
But the denial felt thin, brittle, even to his own ears.
And once the question had been asked, it became impossible to put the thought back into silence. The others started to notice too. Their teasing shifted, jokes edged with curiosity. Glances darted between him and Kai more often, and their laughter carried a strange undercurrent—half amusement, half wondering what had changed.
Eli brushed it all off, insisting nothing was wrong, but his chest grew tighter each time. The more he denied it, the more obvious it became.
Through it all, Kai never said a word. He didn't defend Eli, didn't explain, didn't tease back. He simply watched—quiet, steady, patient—as if waiting for Eli to turn around on his own.
And the longer it went on, the heavier the silence between them grew, pressing down like an invisible weight neither of them could ignore.