January faded into February, but her image still lingered in my mind like a stubborn melody. Every time I walked through the college gates,
I hoped — even if I didn't admit it to myself — that I'd catch just a glimpse of her. That soft smile, that quiet look, the way she used to glance at me like she was figuring out a puzzle.
But things weren't the same anymore.
We had settled into the second semester now. The atmosphere in the class had shifted—new subjects, new pressures, same old faces. Yet
something about her felt...distant. Not cold, just...less there. She didn't look at me like before, not even accidentally. I tried to brush it off at first. Maybe she was busy. Maybe it was just in my head.
But deep down, I knew. Something had changed.
One afternoon, during a boring lecture, I caught her laughing quietly with a group near the window. I smiled to myself. That laugh —
it still made my heart do a backflip. But the smile faded quickly. I wasn't the reason she laughed. I hadn't even spoken to her properly since the semester began.
I wanted to go up to her, crack a silly joke, or just say hi like I used to. But the words got stuck. Something about the way she avoided my eyes made me hesitate. Like maybe she didn't want that anymore.
Later that week, I ran into her — literally — near the canteen. She dropped her water bottle, and I picked it up before she could. "Sorry,"
I said, handing it to her. She nodded. "It's okay."
Just two words. No smile. No warmth.
That night, I stared at the ceiling in my room, thinking about what went wrong.
Was it me? Did she misunderstand something? Or was she just...moving on?
But amidst all this confusion, something else started to grow in me — a strange sense of determination. I didn't want this to be our
story's end. Even if we were just friends, I didn't want to fade out of her world like a forgotten chapter.
So, I decided to start small.
During practical class, I tried helping her with one of the experiments. "You have to connect the resistor here," I said, pointing to the
circuit. She looked at it, nodded, and then added, "Thanks."
Still short. Still distant. But a step forward.
I kept it up — little things. Holding the door open, helping her pick up papers when she dropped them, giving her space but being there. I wasn't trying to win her over like a hero in a movie. I just wanted her to remember who I was...who I am.
Then one rainy afternoon, as we all rushed to the lecture hall, she sat beside me. Voluntarily.
I didn't say anything. I didn't want to break the moment. But my heart was racing.
She finally turned and said, "You've changed."
I blinked. "In a good way or bad?"
She smirked, the old familiar smirk I hadn't seen in weeks. "Let's see."
That day, I didn't need anything more. That single conversation felt like hope stitched into silence.
Maybe we weren't the same people from September. But something still connected us. Maybe the next chapter would be different — not better or worse, just real.
And I was ready for it.
The days following the college reopening flowed like a silent river—routine, calm, yet brimming beneath the surface. February had just settled in, but the energy around the
campus was a mix of pressure and personal drama. Everyone was either buried in
backlogs or catching up with people they hadn't seen in a while.
But for me, everything had changed… silently.
Ever since my friend casually dropped the bomb—that she had told the class resentative about my feelings—I had been haunted by that
single moment. The air between me and the girl I liked wasn't the same anymore. It was heavy… awkward… but also strangely magnetic.
That girl, the one I'd silently admired from the first semester, had started noticing me. Not in a dramatic movie-like way, but in those tiny, sharp glances during lab hours, or the way her footsteps slowed when she walked past me. And yet, we never spoke. Not even once.
She didn't act angry. She didn't seem flattered either. Her expression was unreadable. sometimes she smiled faintly at something her friend said, and I'd catch that moment—not knowing if it was about me or not. It made
my chest heavy with something between hope and confusion.
One afternoon, during practicals, we were both assigned to the same desk group, not directly next to each other, but close enough. I could
feel my heartbeat in my throat. I was so aware of every word I spoke, every movement I made. Was she listening? Did she even care?
She never said anything to me. But that day, when the lab got dismissed early, I stayed back, pretending to check my notes. She walked past me—and for the first time—she looked right at me. A long, direct look. Not
smiling, not cold… just unreadable. That moment burned into my memory.
I remember going home that day and replaying it a hundred times in my head.
Was it curiosity? Confusion? Did she know everything now?
Was she angry that I never told her myself?
Or was she wondering why I liked her in the first place?
Sometimes I thought about just walking up to her and saying everything. But every time I tried, I would freeze. The fear of ruining that
fragile space between us was stronger than any courage I had. So, I waited. I let the days pass, hoping something would change.
My friend kept pushing me. "Bro, she already knows. You've got nothing to lose. At least talk to her."
But I wasn't ready. I felt like everything would collapse if I did.
The semester was ending soon. Final internal marks were being discussed. Everyone was stressed. But somewhere in between assignments, reports, and last-minute preparation—I realized something strange.
Even without words, she had become part of my daily thoughts. A routine, like my morning bus ride or the coffee I never finished. I didn't know if it was love or just obsession with a moment that never got closure.
Then came the last day before study holidays.
The whole class was relaxed after the final practical. People were cracking jokes, taking selfies, and saying goodbyes till exams were
over. I was sitting quietly in a corner of the classroom, half-smiling at some meme someone showed me.
She walked in late, as usual, with her hair tied up in a messy bun and her lab coat still rinkled. She didn't speak to anyone much. Just sat for a while… then stood up and walked past me.
And again, she looked at me.
This time, it wasn't long. Just a second. But her eyes—there was a flicker of emotion there. Something real.
And then she walked out.
I didn't follow her.
I didn't say a word.
But I knew in that moment… something had begun.
Something fragile, quiet, and uncertain—but very real.
The kind of feeling you carry like a letter you're too scared to open.
And just like that, the chapter of silent glances and unspoken words came to a temporary end, waiting for the next.