Inside the lecture hall, the cartography of their existence remained unchanged. Andini anchored the back row; Fani occupied her solitary coordinates in the front-left.
The campus continued its relentless, rhythmic churn, as if their intersection were a minor footnote, unworthy of history's ink. To a casual observer, nothing had shifted. But Andini knew better; she felt the tectonic plates of their shared silence begin to slide.
There were new, quiet rituals. Sometimes, before the professor's voice began to drone, Fani would cast a fleeting glance over her shoulder—a quick scan of the horizon.
Sometimes, Fani would find Andini standing in the hallway, unnervingly close, performing a focused study of a bulletin board that held nothing of interest.
They didn't always speak. They didn't always trade greetings. But the distance between them, once a fortress of cold stone, had softened into a permeable space—a threshold they were learning to cross with barefoot caution.
One afternoon, the rain arrived without an invitation.
The faculty corridors were nearly hollowed out. Andini stood by a window, watching the world blur into charcoal and silver, when she heard the faint, rhythmic whir of wheels behind her.
"Still here?" Fani asked.
Andini shook her head. "The rain."
Fani moved to her side, and for a moment, they simply watched the sky collapse. The downpour grew denser, a white curtain erasing the campus landmarks.
"When it rains like this," Fani said, her voice a low vibration in the damp air, "the campus finally stops lying."
Andini turned to her. "Lying?"
"It stops pretending to be busy. It's just... honest. Empty."
Andini didn't reply immediately. Instead, she allowed herself a small, unburdened smile.
From that afternoon onward, the air between them grew thick with conversation. It wasn't always profound. They spoke of the mundane—the weight of assignments, the predatory heat of the afternoon, the way certain books smelled of forgotten rooms.
***
One day, as the lecture wound down, Fani hesitated, her fingers hovering over a scrap of paper. With a quick, almost furtive motion, she slid it onto Andini's desk.
"If... you're so inclined," Fani murmured.
Andini stared at the digits for a long moment. She wasn't someone who archived people. Her phone was a wasteland of utility. Yet, she reached for her pen and scribbled her own number on the reverse side before handing it back.
"This is mine," Andini said.
The exchange was a quiet rebellion. From then on, they traded messages. They weren't frequent or urgent; they were digital pulses, rhythmic reminders that the other existed.
Saturday arrived with a different frequency. No lectures, no deadlines, no performative socialising. The campus was a skeleton of itself, a relic of its own weekday chaos.
Andini was there. Not for a library session, but because of a brief, tentative message she had received the night before.
"If you're free tomorrow... would you like to meet at the gardens?"
The invitation was sparse. It held no weight of obligation. It was the kind of sentence Andini could have easily ignored, yet her thumbs had moved with a will of their own.
"I'll be there."
***
The morning was still. Andini waited at the small pavilion near the back gardens, checking her watch with a restlessness she didn't quite recognize. She wasn't sure if she was waiting for a person or for her own desire to flee.
Then, the sound of wheels on pavement.
Fani arrived, looking weathered by the morning air but possessing a gaze that was undeniably steady.
"I'm sorry. I took longer than I intended," she said.
Andini shook her head. "Time is the only thing we have plenty of today."
They sat in the garden for a while, the wind weaving through the leaves, carrying the scent of damp earth. They spoke in fragments, letting the silence do the heavy lifting.
"Andini," Fani said after a long pause, "if it's not too much... would you like to see where I live?"
The request was a small crack in a door Fani usually kept deadbolted.
Andini didn't hesitate. She looked at the road, then back at Fani's face, which held a fragile hope.
"Yes," she said.
A taxi ferried them through a labyrinth of narrow streets where the air was thick with the domestic hum of the city—children's shouts, the sizzle of street food, the scent of charcoal.
They stopped before a modest house with a riot of unruly potted plants crowding the entrance. Fani navigated toward the door, her movements fluid and practiced.
"Forgive the chaos," she said, unlatching the door.
Andini stepped inside.
The house was intimate, compressed. The walls were a gallery of faded photographs and mismatched bookshelves that groaned under the weight of disorganized volumes. There was a pervasive scent of old cedar and parchment. It wasn't tidy, but it felt remarkably deliberate.
"It's a house that breathes," Andini whispered.
Fani smiled. "The campus is vast, but it always feels hollow to me."
They settled in the living room. Andini took to the floor, leaning back against the base of the sofa, while Fani parked her chair beside a stack of books. Without a word, Fani pulled a worn volume from the pile.
"Shall we read?"
Andini nodded.
They lapsed into a shared silence that demanded nothing. It was a rare, oxygenated quiet. Fani eventually reached for another book, pointing to a page where the corner had been dog-eared.
"I find myself coming back to this," she said.
Andini leaned in to read the marked passage. In the margin, there was a tiny, cramped note in Fani's handwriting: I write not to be heard, but to curate the evidence of my own pulse.
"Your words?" Andini asked.
Fani flushed slightly, a touch of vulnerability surfacing. "Sometimes it's easier to speak to the paper."
Andini closed the book with a soft, reverent click. "I understand that better than I can say."
The afternoon began to dissolve into gold. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light piercing the window.
"Why are you always so solitary, Andini?" Fani asked, her voice gentle, testing the air.
Andini stared at the light on the floor. "I'm not particularly good at the geography of people. Usually, they find the exit before I've even finished the introduction."
Fani didn't offer a platitude. Instead, she reached out and touched Andini's hand—a contact that was brief enough to be a ghost, but long enough to act as an anchor.
"I've lived in that same country," Fani said softly.
As twilight threatened to turn into night, Andini prepared to leave. At the door, Fani paused.
"Thank you," she said. "Not just for coming. But for not making me explain the spaces between my words."
Andini nodded. "The feeling is mutual."
They parted without the heavy baggage of a promise.
Walking home, Andini realized something: not every home needs to be owned. Some are simply meant to be found in the quiet corners of another person's life.