Their college did not breathe every day.
It existed in pauses.
For most of the year, it stood still—locked gates, silent corridors, dust gathering patiently on wooden benches that had once carried the weight of restless elbows and unfinished dreams. The classrooms waited like empty shells, as if the walls themselves were unsure whether they would ever be needed again. There were no morning bells to announce purpose, no afternoon laughter echoing down hallways, no friendships slowly forming over shared notebooks and half-understood lectures.
The college did not live a normal life.
It only woke up during examinations.
Those days arrived without ceremony but carried their own quiet intensity. A few mornings in a year when the gates opened early, when the guard dusted off the register book, when the ceiling fans were switched on after months of silence. On those days, the campus filled suddenly—students arriving from distant villages and neighboring towns, some after long bus rides, some on bicycles, some walking the final stretch with shoes already coated in red dust.
They came carrying folded admit cards, pens tucked nervously behind ears, transparent pencil boxes rattling softly with movement. Some carried confidence. Some carried fear. Most carried expectations that did not entirely belong to them.
Parents waited outside. Some paced. Some prayed. Some pretended not to worry.
For a few hours, the college mattered again.
Then the papers ended. The students left. And the silence returned.
It was during one of those brief awakenings—one of those borrowed days of life—that their paths crossed.
Not dramatically.
Not deliberately.
Quietly. Almost carelessly.
For him, that morning had been planned with the same discipline he applied to everything else. He woke up before the alarm, as he often did, staring at the ceiling for a few seconds before sitting up. His notes were already revised. His uniform ironed the night before. His pen tested. His admit card folded carefully and placed inside his file.
There was comfort in routine.
Reach early.
Find the seat.
Write the paper well.
Go home.
He repeated the steps in his mind while brushing his teeth, while eating breakfast, while tying his shoes. He did not allow room for distractions. Distractions had never helped anyone reach a goal.
With ninety-two percent in his twelfth standard, he carried a quiet pride—not the kind that demanded acknowledgment, but the kind that rested inside the chest like steady breathing. Teachers trusted him. Relatives used him as a reference point. Younger cousins were told to "study like him."
He did not think of himself as exceptional. He thought of himself as prepared.
His dreams were clear, practical, shaped by effort rather than fantasy. He believed that life rewarded consistency. He believed that if you showed up every day and did the work honestly, things would fall into place eventually.
Nothing about that morning suggested it would become important.
The road to the college was familiar. Dust rose under passing vehicles. A tea stall near the gate already had a small crowd—boys sipping quickly, pretending calm, their voices louder than necessary. He walked past them, his bag resting lightly against his shoulder.
At the entrance, he paused just long enough to show his admit card. The guard nodded without looking closely. Inside, the campus felt half-awake, like someone roused too early from sleep. The buildings looked the same as always—plain, functional, uninterested in beauty.
The exam hall was already open.
As he stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted.
Rows of wooden desks stood aligned with strict obedience. The floor bore the faint marks of years of dragging benches. The smell of chalk mixed with old paper and something metallic, something nervous. Ceiling fans spun lazily, their sound filling the room with a dull, constant hum.
Students entered in small groups, then alone. Chairs scraped softly. Bags were placed under desks. Someone cleared their throat too often. Someone else whispered a formula, eyes closed, lips moving silently.
He found his seat easily.
Second column. Middle row.
He sat down and placed his pen on the desk with deliberate care, aligning it parallel to the edge. His question paper had not yet arrived, but his posture was already prepared. Back straight. Shoulders relaxed. Mind steady.
He breathed in once.
Then—
Behind him, there was a disturbance.
Not loud. Not disruptive. Just a change in rhythm.
Footsteps approaching. A chair being pulled back slightly too carefully. A man's voice—low, restrained, protective.
"Here. Sit properly."
The voice carried the weight of concern, of responsibility. It was the kind of voice that checked twice before letting go.
He did not turn around.
He noticed it the way one notices rain beginning outside a window—without urgency, without curiosity. The world behind him did not feel relevant. His attention remained fixed forward.
A father escorting his daughter to her seat.
It was a common sight on exam days. Parents accompanied children as far as they were allowed, lingering longer than necessary, offering last instructions that had already been repeated a hundred times.
"Write calmly."
"Don't panic."
"Drink water."
He did not know then that this ordinary scene—so familiar, so easily overlooked—was quietly rearranging something inside him.
The father adjusted the chair. The daughter sat. The chair legs scraped softly against the floor. The father lingered for a moment longer, then stepped away.
Still, he did not turn.
The invigilator entered, carrying a stack of papers under one arm. The room straightened collectively. Whispers died. Bags were pushed further under desks. Pens were uncapped and recapped.
Question papers were distributed row by row.
When one landed on his desk, he bent forward immediately.
The world narrowed.
Ink.
Paper.
Time.
He read the first question carefully, underlining a keyword with his eyes. His pen began to move. Each word formed with practiced confidence. His handwriting was neat, controlled, almost restrained. He did not rush. He did not hesitate.
Minutes passed.
The ceiling fan continued its slow rotation. Pages turned. Someone coughed at the back. A pen fell somewhere to the left and was retrieved quickly.
Nothing existed beyond the exam.
Or so he believed.
Because somewhere behind him, a presence sat quietly—unseen, unnamed, unnoticed. Someone who was not thinking about him at all. Someone whose existence had entered the same physical space without permission or warning.
And with that, the distance between two strangers had already begun to shrink.
He did not feel it yet.
He wrote on, unaware that this moment—the most ordinary of moments—was quietly becoming the first frame of a memory that would follow him for years.
A memory he would replay without realizing why.
A memory that would refuse to fade.
And he had no idea yet—
No idea at all—
That he was about to hear her voice for the very first time.
A soft tap landed on his desk from behind