Almost a Goodbye
The notice came on a Friday afternoon.
“Selected students to report for internship orientation.”
Arjun’s name was there.
Ananya saw it from a distance, standing among a small crowd. She didn’t move closer. She didn’t need to. Her eyes found his name as if it already knew where to look.
So this was happening.
The days that followed felt suspended—neither normal nor fully ending.
Arjun began carrying fewer books. Ananya began memorising small details she had never consciously stored before: the way he paused before turning pages, the slight bend in his posture when he concentrated, the quiet respect with which he spoke to elders.
On his last day at college before leaving, Ananya wore a pale blue kurta. She didn’t know why. Perhaps because it felt like a colour that wouldn’t draw attention.
Classes ended early.
Students laughed loudly, taking photos, making promises to stay in touch. Ananya stayed seated, packing slowly.
Arjun stood up, hesitated, then turned around.
He walked to her desk.
Not close.
Just close enough.
“I’ll be away for a while,” he said.
Ananya looked up.
“I know.”
There were so many things they could have said.
Take care.
I’ll miss this.
Don’t forget.
Instead, she said, “All the best.”
He nodded.
“You too.”
They stood there for a second longer than necessary.
Then he turned and walked away.
No tears.
No drama.
That evening, Ananya’s mother noticed her unusually quiet.
“Are you tired?” she asked.
“Yes, Amma.”
It wasn’t a lie.
At night, Ananya folded her dupatta carefully and placed it aside. She realised something frightening in its simplicity.
This goodbye had no memory for others.
No photographs.
No witnesses.
Only her heart knew it had ended.
In another city, days later, Arjun unpacked his bag in a shared room. New people. New routines.
Yet, every evening, when he opened his notebook, he left a small space at the back—untouched.
He didn’t know why.
Some goodbyes are loud.
Some are final.
And some
are so quiet that only silence remembers them.
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