It wasn’t loud or meant to stay,
just a curve upon your face.
Yet in that second, time grew soft,
and the world found a better pace.
No words were needed, none could do,
what that quiet warmth achieved.
A fleeting smile, a lasting light,
left my heart lighter than it believed.
A smile—so small, yet whole enough
to turn a moment into grace.
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.
One morning, Ananya reached her classroom and felt it immediately.
Something was missing.
The aisle seat two rows ahead was empty.
At first, she told herself it meant nothing. Students missed classes all the time—festivals, family functions, small illnesses that Indian homes treated with kadha and rest.
Still, her eyes returned to that seat again and again.
The lecture began. Chalk scraped against the board. Pages turned. The world continued.
But Ananya’s mind did not.
She wondered if Arjun was unwell. The thought made her uneasy—not because she feared loss, but because she realised how accustomed she had become to his quiet presence. Some habits settle into us without asking.
That day felt longer than usual.
During lunch, she sat with her friends, nodding at conversations she didn’t fully hear. Her tiffin remained half-closed. Her mother would ask later, “Did you eat properly?” And Ananya would say yes—because daughters were taught not to worry their parents.
The next day, the seat was still empty.
So was the next.
Whispers began—soft, careless whispers.
“His father’s not well, I heard.”
“No, no, they’re shifting houses.”
“Someone said he might drop this semester.”
Each rumour felt heavier than the last.
Ananya never asked anyone directly. Asking would mean admitting concern, and concern, she believed, was a form of attachment. Attachment was dangerous.
Yet, on the fourth day, as she walked past the notice board, she saw it.
A small slip of paper, pinned carelessly.
“Arjun R. — Leave of absence approved (2 weeks)”
Her chest loosened slightly. Relief came first. Then something else followed—something she didn’t know how to name.
That evening, in his home, Arjun sat beside his father’s bed, holding a hospital file instead of his notebook. His father’s breathing was slow, laboured, but steady.
Arjun did not complain. He did not panic.
He just stayed.
In moments like these, Indian sons were taught one thing above all else:
Be strong. Don’t let emotions distract you.
Yet, in the quiet hours of the night, Arjun thought of college. Of routines. Of a certain window seat behind him that always felt… occupied, even when he didn’t turn around.
He wondered if she had noticed his absence.
Not because he wanted to be missed—
but because being noticed felt like proof that his quiet existence mattered.
Two weeks later, he returned.
Same time. Same bag. Same careful steps.
Ananya felt it before she saw him. That familiar sense of something settling back into place.
He took his seat. Adjusted his watch. Opened his notebook.
Nothing more.
But when he turned a page, his pen slipped.
It rolled backward this time.
And stopped near Ananya’s foot.
She picked it up.
Their eyes met—for the first time.
Only for a second.
No smile.
No expression.
Just understanding.
In that brief moment, they shared what words were never allowed to carry:
I noticed you were gone.
I noticed you came back.
And sometimes, that is love in its purest form—
recognition without demand.
Neither of them knew that life was already moving its pieces quietly, preparing a path where silence would soon be tested… far beyond classrooms and benches.
Ananya’s mother began noticing things.
Not anything obvious—Indian mothers rarely needed proof. They sensed change the way they sensed rain before clouds gathered.
“You’ve become quieter these days,” her mother said one morning, folding sarees neatly. “Is college too stressful?”
Ananya shook her head.
“No, Amma.”
That was the truth. College wasn’t stressful.
Her heart was careful.
Her father, meanwhile, had started speaking about the future—casually, as if it were a distant thought.
“Next year, we should start looking at good coaching options,” he said one evening over dinner. “A girl must stand on her own feet, but within limits.”
Ananya nodded. She always nodded.
Limits were familiar. Comforting, even.
At college, Arjun felt a similar shift.
His uncle visited one Sunday, bringing sweets and unsolicited advice. Between cups of tea, the conversation drifted naturally—as it always did.
“You’re doing well in studies,” his uncle said. “Soon, responsibilities will come. We must think ahead.”
Arjun listened silently.
That night, his mother sat beside him, her voice gentle.
“Focus on what matters now. Life becomes complicated if feelings enter too early.”
Arjun didn’t ask which feelings she meant. In Indian homes, some topics were understood without explanation.
The next day in class, Ananya sensed a difference.
Arjun seemed more… distant. Not absent—just guarded. His notebook was closer to him, his posture straighter, as if he were protecting something invisible.
She wondered if she had imagined their silent connection all along.
That thought hurt more than she expected.
During a group assignment, fate placed them in the same team.
It was unavoidable. Names assigned alphabetically. No escape.
They sat at opposite ends of the table.
The room buzzed with discussion, but between them, there was a careful space—untouched, respectful.
When Arjun spoke, he addressed everyone, never just her. When Ananya spoke, her eyes stayed on her notes.
At one point, she pushed a paper forward—accidentally, perhaps intentionally.
Arjun took it.
Their fingers didn’t touch.
Yet both felt it—the weight of what they were choosing not to do.
Later, as they packed their bags, Arjun spoke for the first time directly to her.
Just two words.
“Thank you.”
Her heartbeat skipped.
She looked up, nodded once, and replied softly,
“It’s okay.”
That was all.
But that night, Ananya lay awake, staring at the ceiling fan slicing the darkness. She realised something frightening.
This wasn’t a passing feeling.
This was becoming a discipline—the discipline of restraint, of respect, of loving within boundaries drawn by family, society, and fear.
And discipline, once learned, is hard to unlearn.
Outside, the neem tree rustled in the wind—unchanging, patient.
Inside two young hearts, something was growing that neither family, nor rules, nor silence could fully contain.
And yet… neither dared to ask for more.
Because in their world, good intentions carried weight
and that weight often decided the direction of a life.
It was Deepavali week.
The college corridors smelled faintly of chalk and sweets. Girls compared bangles in hushed excitement, boys talked about firecrackers and train tickets home. Everyone carried the warmth of celebration in their bags.
Everyone except Ananya.
Festivals in her home were beautiful—but strict.
New clothes were worn only after elders approved. Visits were planned. Smiles were moderated. Laughter had to remain graceful.
That morning, she wore a simple cream kurta with a maroon dupatta. Her hair was neatly braided, jasmine tucked at the end—her mother’s touch, not her own choice.
When she entered the classroom, something felt different.
Arjun was already seated.
He wore a fresh, neatly pressed kurta—nothing flashy, but unmistakably festive. For the first time, Ananya noticed how deeply rooted his upbringing was in him, how celebration for him meant dignity, not display.
Their eyes met briefly.
A silent greeting passed between them.
The lecturer announced half-day classes. A collective sigh of relief followed.
Students rushed out, planning movies, outings, noise.
Ananya packed her bag slowly. She would go straight home. There was cleaning to help with, lamps to arrange. Responsibility waited.
As she stepped into the corridor, she saw Arjun near the notice board. He was holding a small paper bag from a sweet shop.
Their paths crossed.
He hesitated—just for a moment.
Then, carefully, he held out the bag—not towards her directly, but placing it on the bench between them.
“My mother made too many,” he said, eyes lowered. “Please… take some.”
Ananya froze.
Accepting sweets was harmless.
Accepting from him felt heavy.
Her parents’ voices echoed in her head.
Don’t create situations.
People will talk.
She looked at the bag.
Then at him.
Then she did something brave—but within limits.
She took one piece.
Just one.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Arjun nodded. He didn’t smile. He didn’t watch her eat it.
That evening, Ananya lit lamps with her family. As she placed them carefully along the window sill, her fingers smelled faintly of sugar and ghee.
The sweet tasted like nothing special.
Yet it stayed with her longer than any firework sound.
In another house, Arjun sat with his parents, folding his hands during prayers. His mother asked, “Did you distribute sweets to friends?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
He didn’t mention her.
Both homes glowed with lamps.
Both hearts carried a small flame—steady, controlled, unseen.
Neither knew that this festival would mark a turning point.
Not because something happened…
But because something ended quietly that day—the innocence of believing this feeling could remain untouched forever.
Some lamps are lit to celebrate.
Some are lit to remember.
And some, unknowingly, are lit before the darkness arrives.
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.
The news came on an ordinary evening.
Ananya was helping her mother sort old steel containers when her father cleared his throat—a sound that always meant something important was about to be said.
“I spoke to Sharma uncle today,” he began, carefully. “His niece is doing very well after her coaching. We should consider something similar for you.”
Ananya paused.
Coaching meant another city.
Another routine.
Another distance.
Her mother smiled softly. “It’s good for your future. A girl must become capable before responsibilities come.”
Ananya nodded. She always did.
That night, she stared at her calendar, counting days she hadn’t realised were already slipping away.
At college, she noticed Arjun less—not because he wasn’t there, but because she was slowly training herself not to look.
One afternoon, as she waited near the office to submit a form, she overheard two lecturers talking.
“Arjun has applied for an internship in another state,” one said. “Good exposure.”
Her heart tightened.
Another state.
She imagined train journeys, unfamiliar streets, new responsibilities shaping him into someone further away from her quiet world.
Later that day, their eyes met across the library aisle.
For the first time, she wondered if this was the last phase of their shared silence.
She wanted to tell him she might leave.
She wanted to ask if he was really going.
But fear stood tall between them—fear of parents, of consequences, of acknowledging something that had survived only because it remained unnamed.
That evening, Ananya’s mother sat beside her while she studied.
“You know,” she said gently, “life doesn’t wait for feelings. It moves forward. We must move with it.”
Ananya swallowed.
She wanted to ask, What about feelings that move quietly, without disturbing anyone?
But daughters rarely asked such questions.
Across town, Arjun read his internship offer again. His parents were proud. He should have felt relieved.
Yet, an unexpected heaviness pressed against his chest.
He thought of the last bench near the window.
He thought of the one piece of sweet she had accepted.
He thought of how silence had become familiar—and how soon, it might disappear entirely.
Some news arrives wrapped in care.
Some decisions are made out of love.
Yet, even the gentlest intentions can slowly begin to separate two hearts—
not because they chose differently,
but because they were never asked what they felt.
