(A memory not loud, yet never quiet either.)
The day felt like any other, draped in the quiet anxiety that came with exams. The sun hung heavy outside, and inside, the classroom air was dense with tension, paper rustles, and the collective hum of thought. But some moments never begin with a bang. They unfold in silences, glances, and the beats skipped by unspoken words.
She sat in the first row, third desk, left wing—head lowered over her paper, scribbling down the familiar shapes of maps and choices she half-knew. Rahul, son of the HOD, had whispered the MCQs and map earlier, and that was enough—for now. The rest she'd figure out on her own. That had been the plan.
But a parallel desk across from her held a disruption she hadn't accounted for.
He was there—Him.
Not speaking, not moving much, but present in a way that made space feel different. He'd tried asking her for answers, she remembered. She hadn't refused—just promised to tell him later, once she was done. And yet, it was not the words that echoed in her memory, but what came after.
Midway through the paper, a lady teacher entered for duty. Silence deepened. She leaned forward, resting her cheek to the wall, trying to recall an answer. And in that moment, instinctively, her gaze shifted—sideways, quietly.
He was already watching.
Not in a loud, obvious way. But in that kind of stillness that said he wasn't just asking for answers anymore.
She didn't lift her head. Her eyes spoke: Kya?
His eyes replied: Kya?
There was no smirk, no mischief. Just mutual curiosity and something softer, unexplored.
Then a sharp voice broke it.
"What?" the teacher snapped, eyes trained on her. Had she seen the exchange? Probably. Her posture stiffened. "Nothing," she said, lips barely moving. She looked away.
The paper lay before her again, but her heartbeat had changed its rhythm. It didn't just tick for time now.
Later, a male teacher came in. Minutes were melting. He asked again—soft, wordless glances seeking help. She couldn't manage both him and her unfinished paper. So she passed answers to the guy in front, asking him to help in her place.
She had just returned to her paper when the unexpected happened.
"You," the teacher barked, motioning to her partner, "stand up."
She paused. Odd, but fine.
"And you," he added, pointing at him.
Wait. What?
Confusion bloomed.
"Switch seats," the teacher said. "Sit with her."
The classroom fell into a hush so thick, it pressed on her skin.
Voices murmured behind them. "Sir, same paper hai inka."
"Exactly," the teacher said with cruel clarity. "Let them sit together. Makes it easier to help, right?"
The sarcasm stung. The mockery louder than it needed to be.
She wanted to speak, to protest—I wasn't even helping him—but the words clung to the roof of her mouth. He said nothing either. The girl returned to her seat. The teacher smirked.
"And the rest of this drama," he added, "you can take outside the school."
She clenched her jaw.
Not because of what was said, but because of what was assumed. Reduced. Oversimplified.
But she didn't stop. Not after that. She finished her paper in a storm and ensured he got the help anyway. Maybe out of rebellion. Or maybe because in that chaos, helping him felt like the only thing that was still hers.
Two days later, they stood again—bags slung over shoulders, on desks, ready to leave for another exam.
He stood ahead. She behind. Both facing forward.
A voice came from behind. That same boy who once sat behind her.
"You two want to sit together, right?"
They turned.
"What?" they didn't say aloud. But their silence was loud enough.
"Sir said it the other day, remember?" the boy grinned.
They didn't reply. Just exchanged a glance—half smile, half disbelief. No comeback. No explanation.
And then they walked away. Not toward each other. But not apart either.
Because not every story ends in love.
Some end in a glance remembered.
Some, in a silence you can still hear.