Routine is a dangerous thing. It convinces you that nothing has changed, even when everything has.
I got ready slower than usual, not because I was tired, but because my thoughts refused to move in a straight line. They circled back to the same place again and again—the note, the shadow, the certainty that none of it was accidental.
I left the apartment with Tyler's silence still lingering behind me. He hadn't said much, but he didn't need to. People like him don't offer comfort. They offer presence. And sometimes, that's more unsettling.
The drive to the university felt longer than it should have. Roads looked the same, people behaved the same, traffic moved the same—but something in me didn't align with it anymore.
Awareness ruins normalcy.
Once you notice something is off, everything starts feeling staged.
I parked the car and stepped out, scanning the surroundings without making it obvious. Not paranoid. Just… attentive.
That's what I told myself.
The campus was alive. Groups of students scattered across the pathways, laughter blending into meaningless noise, conversations flowing without direction. It looked normal.
It always does.
I walked toward the main building, my eyes drifting across faces, movements, patterns. Nothing stood out.
Which made it worse.
Because something like that doesn't just disappear.
It hides.
"Harry."
I stopped.
Turned.
Avni.
She walked toward me like nothing had happened. Like last night didn't exist. Like fear hadn't whispered itself into her voice just hours ago.
"You didn't call," she said.
No accusation. Just observation.
"I didn't want to wake you," I replied.
Half-truth.
She studied my face.
"You went, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"And?"
I paused.
Measured my words.
"Nothing happened."
Lie.
Not entirely.
But enough.
She exhaled slowly, relief softening her expression.
"I told you it's probably nothing," she said. "I think I just overthought it."
Interesting.
Fear doesn't disappear overnight.
Not real fear.
"Maybe," I said.
She smiled.
And for a moment, she looked exactly like the girl I had once fallen for.
That's the problem with memory.
It edits reality.
"Come on," she said, slipping her hand into mine. "Let's go to class."
Her grip wasn't tight.
But it wasn't loose either.
It was… controlled.
Like everything else about her.
We walked together, blending into the crowd, becoming part of the same noise I had been trying to escape.
"You're quiet," she said.
"I usually am."
"Not like this."
I glanced at her.
"And how is this?"
She tilted her head slightly, observing me.
"Distant."
I smiled faintly.
"That's new?"
She didn't respond.
Instead, she tightened her grip just slightly.
Subtle.
But intentional.
Control doesn't need force.
Just presence.
We reached the hallway, and the noise amplified. Lockers opening, footsteps echoing, voices overlapping—too much, too fast, too empty.
I let go of her hand.
Not abruptly.
Just enough.
"I'll see you later," I said.
She frowned slightly.
"You're not coming to class?"
"I have something to do."
"What?"
I held her gaze.
"Thinking."
She rolled her eyes.
"You and your thoughts."
"Yeah."
If only she knew.
She stepped closer.
Too close.
"Don't disappear on me," she said softly.
Not a request.
A warning disguised as concern.
"I won't," I replied.
Another lie.
Or maybe not.
Depends on what disappearing means.
She looked at me for a moment longer, as if trying to read something beneath the surface.
Then she smiled.
And walked away.
I watched her go.
And for the first time, I didn't feel anything.
No pull.
No attachment.
Just observation.
Like she was a character I had already understood.
And outgrown.
I turned and walked in the opposite direction.
Not toward class.
Toward the library.
Of course.
That's where people like me go when reality stops making sense.
The library was quieter.
Not silent.
But honest.
Pages turning.
Pens moving.
Thoughts exist without performance.
I walked between the shelves slowly, fingers brushing against the spines of books I had already read, already understood, already questioned.
Kafka.
Camus.
Nietzsche.
Woolf.
All of them tried to define existence.
None of them lived the way it actually feels.
Because reality isn't poetic.
It just becomes poetic when you survive it.
I stopped.
Something felt… familiar.
Not the place.
The feeling.
Like déjà vu, but sharper.
Intentional.
I turned slightly.
And saw her.
Anna.
Sitting near the corner, a book open in her hands, completely absorbed.
Of course.
Some people don't chase meaning.
They sit with it.
I walked toward her.
Not because I had to.
Because I wanted to understand something.
Or maybe someone.
She looked up before I reached her.
As if she already knew.
"You're late," she said.
I stopped.
The words hit differently this time.
Not threatening.
Not mocking.
Just… precise.
"You too?" I asked.
She closed the book slowly.
"No," she said. "You just look like someone who didn't sleep."
I studied her.
Carefully.
"Do I?"
"Yes."
She tilted her head slightly.
"And like someone who realized something."
I sat down across from her.
"What makes you say that?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she pushed the book slightly toward me.
Crime and Punishment.
Of course.
"You brought it," she said.
I glanced at my bag.
Then back at her.
"I always do."
"No," she replied softly. "Not like this."
Silence.
But not uncomfortable.
Not heavy.
Just… present.
"You believe in coincidence?" I asked.
She smiled faintly.
"No."
"Good."
I leaned back slightly.
"Because I don't think last night was random."
Her expression didn't change.
Which meant she was listening.
"Something happened," I continued. "Something that doesn't fit."
"And you're trying to make it fit," she said.
Not a question.
A statement.
"That's what people do."
"And does it work?"
I thought about it.
"No."
She nodded slightly.
"Then maybe you're asking the wrong question."
I frowned.
"And what's the right one?"
She held my gaze.
Calm.
Steady.
Unmoving.
"Not what happened," she said.
"But why were you there."