Distances That Were Decided for Them
The semester changed.
With it came new timetables, new seating arrangements, and the kind of adjustments that looked small on paper—but shifted entire worlds.
Ananya was moved closer to the front.
Arjun’s section was split.
They no longer shared the same classroom every day.
At first, Ananya told herself it didn’t matter. After all, they had never spoken much. They had never promised anything. Nothing had been named.
Yet, the absence felt different this time.
It wasn’t sudden like before.
It was permanent, scheduled, and signed by authority.
Some days, she would catch a glimpse of him across the courtyard—always from afar. He would walk with friends, listening more than speaking. She would pass by with her head slightly lowered, careful not to look like she was searching.
When they did cross paths, it was always in motion—no pause, no chance.
At home, Ananya’s mother started preparing her gently.
“Next year will be important,” she said one night while oiling Ananya’s hair. “We should think about entrance exams. Marriage can wait, but not forever.”
Ananya closed her eyes.
The oil was warm. The words were heavier.
Arjun’s father, meanwhile, had started discussing finances more often. Responsibilities were becoming real, measurable.
“You might need to help more at home soon,” he said. “Be prepared.”
Arjun nodded.
Prepared—for what, he didn’t know.
One afternoon, Ananya stayed back late at the library. Exams were near. The sun dipped lower than she expected.
As she hurried out, anxiety rising, she saw Arjun near the bicycle stand.
He noticed her too.
For the first time in months, they were not surrounded by people.
Time slowed.
He wanted to ask if she was okay getting home late.
She wanted to explain she didn’t plan to stay so long.
But words stood between them like rules they couldn’t break.
Instead, Arjun said the safest thing he knew.
“It’s getting late.”
Ananya nodded.
“Yes.”
That was all.
He waited until she walked towards the main gate before unlocking his cycle—keeping distance, keeping dignity.
That night, Ananya sat at her study table, books open but unread. She realised something painfully clear.
This feeling had not faded.
It had matured.
It had learned patience.
It had learned obedience.
And that made it harder.
Because feelings that rebel often burn out.
But feelings that obey—
they stay.
And they hurt quietly.
Some distances are not created by people.
They are created by time, duty, and love that knows it must not ask for more.
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