The decision to leave wasn't loud.
It didn't arrive like thunder, didn't shake the walls, didn't slam into my life with drama.
It came quietly — like a soft whisper that settles on your shoulder and suddenly feels like truth.
By afternoon, everything around me felt different.
Not because anything had changed outside…
but because something had shifted inside me.
My mother didn't ask too many questions; she knew my silence better than my words.
Shivis, on the other hand, looked like someone who had been waiting for this moment for weeks.
As soon as we stepped out into the sunlight again, he elbowed me lightly.
"Bro… now you are talking like a man."
I rolled my eyes. "I always talk like a man."
He laughed loudly, the sound echoing through the corridor.
We walked through the market, weaving between vegetable sellers, noisy school kids, and the usual chaos of everyday life. But something in the air felt new — as if a door had opened somewhere inside me and I was finally ready to step through it.
The talk about leaving gave both of us a strange sense of excitement.
A fresh start.
A new city.
New air.
New routines.
New everything.
But even beneath that excitement… a quiet ache remained.
Every step I took carried a shadow behind it — her shadow.
I wasn't running from her.
But I couldn't deny she was part of the reason I needed a new environment.
Not because she hurt me.
But because she confused me.
Because my heart didn't know how to stay still around her.
Because her silence felt louder than her words.
We reached a quiet corner near the temple where auto rickshaws lined up lazily, waiting for passengers. The sun had drifted slightly west, painting the buildings with soft afternoon gold.
"You sure about this?" Shivis asked, suddenly serious.
I took a slow breath.
"Yes."
He watched my face carefully, making sure the answer wasn't a reaction, but a decision.
And then he nodded.
"Then we'll go together."
The simplicity of those words made something warm settle inside me. I wasn't going alone into the unknown. I had someone who understood me — more than I understood myself.
We turned toward the main road and began walking again. The day felt longer, heavier, but in a good way. A way that meant something was finally moving.
Sometime around 3 PM, we reached a small tea stall under a banyan tree. The owner already knew us from years of evening walks and exam talks. He placed two cutting chais on the counter without even asking.
The steam rose from the cups in thin, swirling lines, curling into the warm air before fading away. I held my cup and stared at the steam, wondering if feelings also disappeared the same way — slowly rising, slowly fading, leaving nothing behind but warmth.
But memories didn't fade like steam.
And neither did her face.
Even as we discussed apartment ideas, budget, possible areas in the new city, my mind kept drifting back to her last message.
We should not talk now.
Focus on your study.
We will meet next year.
Bye.
There was something final in those words.
Something sharp.
Something she didn't show when she looked at me.
The contrast felt like two different people living inside her — one who let me in, and one who pushed me out.
Maybe she was protecting herself.
Maybe she was protecting me.
Maybe she didn't know what she wanted.
Maybe I didn't either.
But the decision was made now.
We were leaving.
The plan formed quickly.
We would go tomorrow morning to check apartments in the new city.
Stay the night if needed.
Finalize something within two or three days.
It sounded simple…
but inside me everything was shaking.
Not from fear.
From change.
Change always comes with a strange mix of hope and dread.
By the time the sun started dropping, coloring the world in deeper shades of orange and rose, we were already imagining ourselves in the new city — cooking together, studying late nights, complaining about electricity bills, exploring streets, discovering tea stalls, meeting new people, building a new routine.
It felt exciting.
But beneath that excitement, a question wouldn't stop growing:
Would distance erase her from my mind?
Or make her stay even deeper?
We returned home before evening prayers. As I stepped inside my courtyard, something felt strangely familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, as if I was seeing my home from the outside for the first time in years.
My mother was folding clothes on the charpai. She looked up at me with soft eyes — the kind of look that makes you want to stay and go at the same time.
"You're going tomorrow?" she asked.
"Yes," I nodded.
She didn't speak for a moment.
Then she smiled faintly.
"You're growing up."
That sentence pushed warmth into my lungs.
Growing up wasn't a loud moment.
It was this — a quiet step into the unknown.
I walked to my room, placed my phone on the table, and tried reading a chapter. But the words blurred almost instantly, melting into thoughts of tomorrow… thoughts of her… thoughts of everything that was leaving and everything that was coming.
Hours passed in slow circles.
The evening turned into night.
And with the night came the familiar restlessness — the one that always arrived when her absence felt too loud.
I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to sleep early. Tomorrow was important. Tomorrow was the beginning of something new.
But my mind was still caught in yesterday.
11 PM crawled closer.
The silence thickened.
My phone lay untouched beside me.
I wasn't planning to message her.
Not today.
Not now.
But that didn't stop her thoughts from sitting in my mind like an unfinished sentence.
One part of me still wanted to tell her everything —
that I was leaving,
that things were changing,
that I didn't know if she cared or not,
that I didn't understand her sudden goodbye,
that I didn't want this chapter to end like this.
But the other part reminded me:
She chose silence.
She chose distance.
She said goodbye.
And maybe…
I needed to respect that.
Even if it hurt.
The clock hit 10:50 PM.
10:57.
10:59.
The air felt thicker now.
I shut my eyes, trying to force myself into sleep, trying to shut down the thoughts swirling inside my skull.
But suddenly—
a message notification lit up the dark room.
My heart kicked inside my chest.
For a moment, I didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Then, slowly…
I reached for my phone.
But the moment I unlocked the screen…
it wasn't her.
It was Shivis.
A short message.
"Bro, pack your clothes. We leave at 8 AM. Don't be late."
My breath eased.
My heartbeat settled.
But somewhere inside, a small disappointment gathered like mist.
Not because she didn't message.
But because a part of me…
still waited.
Still hoped.
Still wanted something from her
that she herself didn't know how to give.
I placed the phone on my chest, staring at the fan, listening to the quiet hum.
Tomorrow would be different.
Tomorrow would be new.
Tomorrow would be the first day of a life where she wasn't next to me in the exam hall, whispering, "You're the only one."
But even as I closed my eyes and let exhaustion pull me under, one truth lingered stubbornly:
I was moving forward.
But I wasn't leaving her behind.
Not really.
Not yet.
Because some people don't stay in your life.
They stay in your story.
And she…
whether she knew it or not…
was becoming one of those people.