The next day dawned slow and grey, like the sky wasn't sure whether to cry or hold itself together.
Anaya moved through it on autopilot. She got up, washed her face, pulled on her yellow hoodie—Pradeep's favorite color, though she'd never admit she knew that—and made her way to campus, her steps mechanical. The world was happening around her, and she was somewhere inside it, but not quite with it.
Maybe it was the late-night thoughts.
Maybe it was the quiet ache in her chest that hadn't faded.
Maybe it was him.
Pradeep.
She hadn't said anything out of the ordinary last night. They hadn't talked long. Just a text, a joke, a smiley face. Simple.
But it stayed with her.
Like a note half-played on a piano, still echoing in her head.
She spotted him before he saw her.
He was leaning casually against the wall near the library, arms folded, head tilted slightly down as he scrolled through something on his phone. He always stood like that—not trying to stand out, but somehow becoming the still point in a moving crowd. He never looked like he was waiting for anyone. Just... existing. Unshakable. Quiet.
And yet, the moment her eyes landed on him, her heart did something complicated.
Not a flutter.
Not a thud.
Something messier.
She wanted to say it was the weather. Or how little she slept. Or how much was on her mind.
But she knew better.
It was him.
The space he took up without trying. The calm he carried that made her want to fall apart a little. The way he saw her—maybe not completely, but enough to make her feel like she wasn't invisible.
She walked toward him, her steps suddenly aware of themselves. Her hoodie sleeve tugged down instinctively, as if she needed armor.
He looked up.
"Morning," he said, voice low and even. Not cold. Just... neutral. Like always.
"Morning," she replied, forcing her voice to stay steady.
They fell into step naturally, walking down the corridor that led to the library. Their shoes made quiet sounds on the stone floor, echoing just enough to remind them they were walking together. Sometimes their shoulders brushed. Sometimes there was space. Never quite in sync, never entirely apart.
A kind of rhythm. Imperfect. But theirs.
She could feel him glance sideways, just once, toward her ankle.
It was fine now. Barely swollen. She'd wrapped it well and didn't limp anymore.
But of course, he noticed.
He always noticed.
Without drawing attention to it. Without asking or fussing. Just... keeping track, quietly.
They didn't talk about much as they entered the library. Didn't need to. Their usual spot was free, tucked into a corner where the light hit softly through the windows and the noise never fully reached.
Same chairs. Same books. Same awkward plastic table with marker stains and chipped edges.
But something had changed.
Not visibly. Not loudly.
It was just there.
Humming beneath the silence.
Unspoken.
She pulled out her notes. He opened his book. Pages turned. Pens moved. Highlighters clicked.
But she wasn't really reading.
She was watching him. Not directly. Just enough to catch the small things.
The way his fingers drummed faintly against the desk when he was thinking.
The slight crease between his brows when he hit a hard question.
The way he occasionally glanced her way—not to speak, not to interrupt, but just to check.
Like she was part of his environment now. Familiar. Not an intrusion.
At one point, her pen died. She clicked it a few times, sighed, gave up.
Without a word, Pradeep slid his pen across the table to her. No comment. No teasing. Just instinct.
She looked at it for a moment. Then at him.
"Thanks," she said softly.
He didn't look up. Just nodded once. As if he'd always planned to lend her a piece of himself.
She took the pen. Wrote with it. The ink was smooth.
It felt more personal than it should've.
Half an hour later, she caught him frowning at a particularly complex diagram. His elbow was propped on the table, fingers against his temple, eyes narrowed.
For just a second, she wanted to reach out.
To smooth that frown. To run her thumb between his brows and tell him it was okay—not just the question, but everything.
Tell him he didn't have to carry so much tension.
That she saw it—even if he never spoke of it.
That maybe he didn't have to do it all alone.
But she didn't.
She stayed still. Doodled in the margin of her notebook instead. Pretended her chest wasn't full of noise while the world around them stayed so silent.
Because there was something between them now.
Something soft. Something careful.
Not quite spoken. Not quite ignored.
It lived in the pauses.
In the small glances.
In the way she noticed his breathing slow when she sat beside him, like her presence steadied him more than he'd admit.
It lived in the way he never asked her why she was quieter today, but kept checking in—without words.
It lived in the pen he passed her. The chair he pulled out. The way he waited just a few seconds longer than necessary when they packed up, as if silently asking, "Are you okay?" without making her answer.
Around them, the library hummed.
Pages turned. Students whispered. Phones buzzed.
But inside her—inside this quiet space they shared—there was only one sound.
The sound of something unspoken.
Something waiting.
Not for permission.
But for the right moment.
And maybe, just maybe, it was already beginning.
---
To be continued...