There was a stretch of time after the results came out when nothing was expected of us.
No exams.
No schedules.
No deadlines close enough to matter yet.
People called it a break, but it didn't feel like rest. It felt like standing in a narrow space between two moving trains, aware that something was approaching but unable to tell from which direction.
Days passed quietly.
I woke up without alarms, though my body still expected them. Mornings arrived slowly now, light filling the room in a way I hadn't had time to notice before. Breakfast was unhurried. Conversations at home drifted without purpose, touching on practical things—documents, housing, dates—before fading again.
I went out more often.
Not to meet anyone. Just to walk. The town felt unchanged, which surprised me. The same shops opened at the same times. Trains passed through the station with familiar regularity. The crossing bell rang, its sound stretching across the street before falling silent again.
Everything was still here.
I wondered, sometimes, if that would always be the case.
She crossed my mind often during those walks.
Not urgently. Not insistently. Just… present. Like a thought that had learned where to sit without getting in the way. I imagined her doing similar things—organizing papers, responding to messages, walking familiar routes with no particular destination.
We didn't message every day.
When we did, the conversations were light.
Did you submit the forms?
Yeah. Yesterday.
Same.
Once, she sent a photo of her desk—papers neatly stacked, a pen placed carefully across the top.
Feels strange not having to study anymore.
I keep thinking I forgot something.
Me too.
That was enough.
There were days when I considered asking her to meet.
The thought usually came in the afternoon, when time stretched longest. I would picture the river, or the station, or the convenience store bench we used to sit on. The image felt familiar, comforting.
Then the moment passed.
Not because I decided against it.
Because I didn't decide at all.
I told myself there would be time later.
The evenings grew warmer.
Windows stayed open longer. Sounds from outside drifted in—voices, bicycles, the occasional laughter of people who didn't seem to be waiting for anything. I lay on my bed some nights, listening to those sounds, wondering how many people were standing in similar pauses without realizing it.
One afternoon, I ran into a classmate from school.
We exchanged polite greetings, talked briefly about results, about where we'd be going. The conversation was easy, surface-level, already tinged with distance.
"Are you excited?" they asked.
"I think so," I said.
They nodded, satisfied, and we went our separate ways.
The word stayed with me longer than it should have.
Excited.
I wasn't sure that was what I felt.
More often, it was something quieter. A sense of anticipation without direction. Like waiting for a train when you know it's coming but don't yet hear it.
She messaged one evening, later than usual.
Do you feel like everything's moving too slowly right now?
I read it twice before replying.
Yeah. Like it's stuck.
Exactly.
Maybe it's just catching its breath.
There was a pause.
I hope so.
I set my phone down after that and stared at the darkened screen.
That night, I dreamed about school.
Not graduation, not exams—just ordinary days. Walking through corridors. Sitting by windows. Waiting for the bell to ring. The dream faded quickly when I woke, leaving behind only the feeling of having been somewhere familiar.
As April approached, small changes began to appear.
Posters advertising apartments came down. New ones went up in their place. People talked more openly about moving, about schedules, about meeting again sometime. The future began to reassert itself gently, testing its weight.
Orientation details were emailed again.
I opened the attachment this time.
Maps. Timetables. Building names that meant nothing yet. I tried to imagine myself there, walking those paths, sitting in those rooms. The image felt incomplete, missing something I couldn't quite define.
She messaged later that day.
Did you look at the campus map?
Yeah.
It's huge.
We'll get lost.
Probably.
I smiled at that.
At least we won't be the only ones.
True.
The conversation lingered for a moment longer than usual, hovering.
Then it ended.
The night before orientation, I laid out my clothes carefully.
Not because it mattered, but because I needed something concrete to do. I checked the time twice, then once more, even though there was nothing urgent.
Before sleeping, I picked up my phone, hesitated, and unlocked it.
There were no new messages.
I placed it back on the table and lay down, listening to the quiet of the house. Somewhere in the distance, a train passed, its sound faint but steady.
Tomorrow, things would start again.
Not the way they used to.
Something new.
And in the space between now and then, I realized that this waiting—this undefined pause—had already changed us in small, irreversible ways.
We hadn't drifted apart.
But we hadn't moved closer either.
We were suspended, just long enough to forget how it felt when closeness didn't need to be planned.