The final year didn't announce itself.
There was no moment where someone stood at the front of the classroom and said, This is it. No clear line between what we had been and what we were about to become. The same building welcomed us that morning. The same corridors echoed with footsteps and voices. Even the air smelled the same—chalk, paper, something faintly metallic from the radiators that had been turned back on.
And yet, everyone moved differently.
People walked faster. Conversations ended more abruptly. Even laughter sounded like it had somewhere else to be.
Winter still lingered in the mornings, cold enough to sting when the wind picked up. But by afternoon, sunlight crept in through the windows, warm enough to rest your hand against the glass without pulling away. Jackets were half-worn, half-carried. The year hovered between seasons, undecided.
We were assigned new seats.
I noticed her name on the chart before I noticed my own.
Different rows. Different sides of the room. Not far—close enough that our eyes could still meet if we looked up at the same time—but far enough that we no longer existed in each other's peripheral vision by default.
When she glanced over during the first class, she raised her hand slightly, fingers barely lifting from the desk.
It felt like a greeting you'd give to someone you weren't sure you were allowed to interrupt anymore.
After class, she found me near the stairwell, adjusting the strap of her bag.
"Did you see where they put us?" she asked.
"I did."
She frowned, like she'd been personally wronged. "It's annoying."
"It's just seats."
She looked at me, serious. "Seats matter."
I didn't argue. I'd already begun to understand what she meant.
The final year came with a different language.
Teachers spoke about entrance exams as if they were inevitable events, like seasons or weather. Rankings were mentioned casually, but the numbers stayed with us long after the class ended. Handouts multiplied. Schedules tightened.
Target schools. Mock exams. Study plans.
The words followed us everywhere.
She seemed to adjust faster than I expected.
Or maybe she was just better at hiding how much it weighed on her.
The clubroom became quieter as weeks passed. Fewer people stayed late. The sketchbook appeared less often, slipping out only during brief breaks, like something she allowed herself when she felt ahead enough to breathe.
I saw her more in the library now.
She sat differently there—leaning forward, shoulders tense, eyes sharper. When she concentrated, the familiar energy in her movements turned inward, contained. The pencil she once used to draw now underlined passages, circled words, tapped lightly against the page when she got stuck.
One afternoon, I took the seat across from her without asking.
She looked up. "You're distracting."
"I haven't done anything."
"You're thinking too loudly."
I lowered my voice. "Sorry."
She stared at her notes, then said, "You don't look stressed."
"I am."
"You hide it well."
"So do you."
She scoffed quietly. "I really don't."
A few minutes passed in silence.
Then she asked, without looking up, "Have you decided where you're applying?"
"Not yet."
She nodded. "Me neither."
The answer seemed to matter more than the words themselves. She relaxed slightly, like knowing we were both uncertain made the uncertainty easier to carry.
When we left the library, it was already dark.
Streetlights reflected faintly on the pavement, and the air had grown colder than we expected. We walked together for a while, our steps matching naturally, like they always had when neither of us was trying.
We didn't talk much.
The quiet felt heavier now—not uncomfortable, but aware of itself.
At the crossing, we stopped as the barrier lowered. The red lights blinked steadily. She stared down the tracks, hands tucked into her sleeves.
"Do you ever feel like everything is happening too fast?" she asked.
"Sometimes."
She nodded. "I feel like if I stop for even a moment, I'll fall behind."
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know you."
She smiled at that, small and brief. The train passed, loud and bright, separating the world into two sides for a few seconds.
When it was gone, she checked the time.
"I should head back," she said.
"So soon?"
She hesitated. "I have a lot to cover tonight."
"Right."
She turned, then paused. "We'll talk later."
"Later."
She walked away, and I stood there longer than I needed to, watching her disappear into the crowd.
Days continued like that.
Some weeks we studied together. Other weeks we barely crossed paths. Messages became efficient, stripped down to essentials.
Studying late today.
Okay.
Good luck.
You too.
Sometimes I typed more. Then deleted it.
Sometimes she took a little longer to reply, and I wondered what she was thinking in that space.
Spring approached quietly.
Trees along the road began to change, buds appearing almost overnight. The air softened. Evenings stretched slightly longer again. But the season didn't bring relief—it brought urgency.
Exams had dates now.
We met near the station one evening, both of us tired, both of us pretending not to be.
"I feel behind," she admitted suddenly.
"You're not."
"You say that like it's objective."
"It is."
She studied my face for a moment. "You believe in me more than I do."
"Someone has to."
She laughed softly, then looked away, embarrassed.
A train arrived, cutting the moment short. When it passed, she stepped back.
"I should go."
I nodded. "Yeah."
She hesitated. "We'll get through this."
"We will."
She left first.
On the way home, I realized something had shifted.
I no longer thought automatically about what we would do tomorrow. Or next week. My thoughts had begun to stretch further—toward exams, results, futures that didn't automatically include each other in the same frame.
That realization didn't hurt.
Not yet.
But it stayed with me, settling quietly, like a thought I'd picked up without meaning to.
The final year had begun.
And with it came the understanding that whatever remained unsaid now was being carried forward—
not together,
but alongside each other,
for as long as that would last.