Where Silence Learned to Love - Part 2

 

The Language of Small Things

Days passed, then weeks.

Nothing changed on the surface.
Same classrooms. Same benches. Same rules written not on paper, but in the air they breathed.

Yet something had shifted—softly, like a curtain moving in the wind.

Ananya began to notice small things.

Arjun always reached the college gate ten minutes early. Not to meet anyone—just to stand aside and read the notice board, as if punctuality itself was a form of discipline taught at home. She imagined his mother reminding him, “Good boys don’t give reasons for people to talk.”

In class, whenever the lecturer asked a question, Arjun would answer only if he was sure. No showing off. No hunger for attention. His voice was steady, respectful—like someone raised to speak only when needed.

Ananya never looked at him directly.
Looking felt like crossing a line.

But she could feel him—especially on days when the classroom grew noisy and crowded. There was a strange comfort in knowing he existed within the same space, bound by the same invisible rules.

One afternoon, it began to rain unexpectedly.

The kind of rain that doesn’t ask permission.

Students rushed, laughing, shouting, complaining about wet clothes. Ananya stood near the corridor, clutching her dupatta tightly, worried not about the rain—but about reaching home late. Her father disliked delays. “A girl’s timing is her safety,” he often said.

She checked the sky, anxiety clouding her thoughts.

That’s when she noticed something unusual.

Arjun had placed his bag carefully over a stack of books left on the corridor bench—protecting them from the rain. He then stood back, making sure no one slipped near the wet steps, quietly warning juniors with a gentle, “Careful.”

There was no audience.
No reason to be kind.

Ananya felt a warmth rise in her chest—not admiration, not affection—but something deeper.

Trust.

That evening, while helping her mother cut vegetables, Ananya’s mind wandered. She wondered what kind of house Arjun returned to. Did his mother ask if he had eaten? Did his father expect him to carry the weight of future responsibilities already?

In another part of the town, Arjun sat at his desk, rewriting notes neatly. His mother’s voice floated from the kitchen, asking if he had packed his lunch for tomorrow. His father reminded him softly, “Focus on studies. Everything else can wait.”

And Arjun nodded.

He thought of Ananya—not as a girl he liked, but as a presence. Someone who existed in his days quietly, respectfully. He noticed how she never laughed loudly, how she always stood a little apart, how her silence felt familiar.

Neither of them wished for more.

They didn’t imagine conversations.
They didn’t dream of futures together.

Their upbringing had taught them one thing very clearly:

Some feelings are meant to be carried, not acted upon.

And so, without a single word exchanged, they began learning a new language—
the language of noticing, of restraint, of caring from a distance.

A language where love did not need touch.
Where silence itself was enough.

They didn’t know it yet, but this silence—so carefully protected—
was slowly becoming the most important thing in their lives.

And the most fragile.