The next few days passed quietly.
Too quietly.
Muhammed Ali noticed her every day.
Not because he tried to…
but because his eyes seemed to find her on their own.
She always sat in the same place.
Always came in a little late.
Always left without saying much.
They didn't talk again.
And that bothered him more than he expected.
"Why does this feel unfinished?" he thought.
During class,
he sometimes felt her presence before he saw her.
A shift in the air.
A silence that felt familiar.
Once, when he turned his head,
their eyes met again.
This time, she didn't look away immediately.
Just a second longer.
Then she looked down,
a faint smile on her lips.
That single moment stayed with him
for the rest of the day.
After school,
Muhammed Ali waited at the bus stop.
The sky was turning orange.
Students gathered in groups,
talking about their plans,
their friends,
their lives.
He stood a little apart.
Then he saw her.
She was sitting on the bench,
headphones on,
looking at the road.
He sat a few steps away.
Not too close.
Not too far.
The bus was late.
Silence filled the space between them.
He wanted to speak.
He didn't.
Instead, he stared at the street.
Suddenly—
One of her earphones fell.
It rolled and stopped near his foot.
He picked it up.
Held it out.
— "You dropped this."
She looked up.
Surprised.
Then relieved.
— "Oh… thank you."
Their fingers almost touched.
Almost.
She took the earphone back.
— "The bus is always late," she said.
He nodded.
— "Yeah."
That was all.
But it was enough.
The bus finally arrived.
They got on.
She stood near the door.
He held onto the rail.
The bus moved.
Muhammed Ali looked out the window.
Yet he could feel it.
The distance between them.
Not measured in steps…
but in courage.
And he wondered—
"..."
The bus ride felt longer than usual.
Muhammed Ali stood quietly,
his hand gripping the rail.
He didn't look at her.
But he knew she was there.
Every time the bus slowed down,
every time someone passed between them,
the space felt smaller…
and heavier.
At one stop,
the bus jolted suddenly.
She lost her balance.
For a brief moment,
her shoulder brushed against his arm.
Just a touch.
Barely there.
But it sent a strange warmth through him.
She steadied herself quickly.
— "Sorry," she said softly.
— "It's okay."
Their voices were low.
Almost careful.
As if raising them would break something.
A few stops later,
she pressed the button.
The bus slowed down.
She turned slightly toward him.
— "This is my stop."
He nodded.
— "See you."
She hesitated.
Just for a moment.
— "See you."
Then she stepped off the bus.
Muhammed Ali watched the doors close.
He didn't follow her with his eyes.
He didn't need to.
The feeling stayed.
That night,
he sat at his desk,
a blank notebook in front of him.
He tried to study.
He couldn't.
His thoughts kept drifting back
to small, meaningless things.
The way she spoke.
The way she paused before leaving.
The way silence felt different around her.
"Why does this matter?" he wondered.
He had lived in silence for years.
Yet now—
Silence felt incomplete.
The next morning,
he arrived at school earlier than usual.
The classroom was empty.
He sat by the window.
Waited.
Minutes passed.
Then the door opened.
She walked in.
She noticed him immediately.
Their eyes met.
This time, neither of them looked away.
She gave a small nod.
He returned it.
No words.
No smiles.
But something had changed.
The distance was still there.
But now—
"..."