The next day felt different to Joya, though nothing around her had changed. The same road, the same school gate, the same classroom walls—but something inside her had shifted quietly, like a door left slightly open.
She arrived early again. Not because she had to, but because waiting at home felt heavier.
Sudom came later than usual. When he entered the classroom, his eyes searched instinctively, and when they found Joya, his steps slowed for just a second. She noticed. That small hesitation warmed her chest more than any spoken word.
"Good morning," he said, pulling out the chair beside hers.
"Morning," she replied, her voice calm despite her racing heart.
They worked in silence for a while, but it wasn't awkward. It felt familiar now, like two people who had learned how to sit inside the same quiet. Sudom tapped his pen against the notebook, then stopped.
"About yesterday…" he began.
Joya held her breath.
"I'm sorry I left like that," he continued. "I didn't mean to."
"It's okay," she said quickly, then added more softly, "I was glad we talked. Even a little."
He looked at her then, really looked at her. "Me too."
At lunch, they sat under the old tree behind the school building. The leaves filtered sunlight onto the ground, breaking it into gentle patterns. Sudom handed her a juice box without asking. She smiled, accepting it.
"You remember," she said.
"Of course," he replied, almost surprised she'd doubt it.
That word stayed with her. Of course.
As the afternoon passed, Sudom seemed more present than before—asking her opinion, waiting for her pace, glancing back when she fell a step behind. None of it was loud. None of it needed to be.
After school, Bijoy waved at her from across the road, shouting that dinner would be late. Joya laughed and waved back, feeling lighter than she had in days.
Sudom watched the exchange. "Your brother?"
"Yeah. He never stops talking," she said fondly.
He smiled. "I like that."
They walked a little further together before stopping at the familiar corner. The moment stretched. Neither of them moved to leave.
"There's still something I want to say," Sudom said at last.
Joya's heart thudded. "Then say it."
He opened his mouth—but this time, instead of stopping, he smiled. "Soon," he said. "I promise."
It wasn't the answer she wanted. But it wasn't distance either.
As Sudom rode away, Joya didn't feel the old ache. She felt something steadier. Hope, maybe. Or trust.
That night, she wrote in her notebook again—not about waiting, but about closeness. About how sometimes, love doesn't arrive all at once. Sometimes it walks beside you first.
And that felt enough… for now.