The days before exams always carried a strange kind of energy.
Not urgency, exactly—more like awareness. As if everyone suddenly realized that time was moving whether we were prepared or not. Hallways felt louder, even when fewer people spoke. Notes were passed around more often. Someone was always complaining about not having studied enough, even when they clearly had.
The air inside the classrooms felt heavier, filled with paper and expectations.
She complained too, but not seriously.
"I don't get why they schedule exams right before summer break," she said, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed. "It's cruel."
"You'd complain even if they gave you a year," I said.
"That's different," she replied. "That would be philosophical complaining."
I looked at her. "There's a difference?"
She nodded, very seriously. "Completely."
We were sitting in the same clubroom again, books spread out this time, pretending to study. Her sketchbook was still there, of course, tucked slightly under her notes, like it refused to be excluded entirely. My own notebook was open in front of me, pages filled with writing that I was only half-paying attention to.
Outside the window, the sky was bright in that early summer way—too clear, too open, like it wasn't interested in exams at all.
"I'm going to fail," she said.
"You say that every time."
"And every time I almost fail."
"That doesn't count."
"It absolutely does."
She leaned forward, elbows on the desk, chin resting on her hands, eyes scanning the page in front of her without really reading it. I watched her pencil roll slowly toward the edge of the desk, unnoticed, until I reached out and stopped it just before it fell.
She looked at me. "Thanks."
I slid it back toward her. "You're welcome."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The room was filled with the sound of pages turning, chairs shifting, someone tapping a pen too loudly.
Then she said, "Do you remember when exams didn't matter?"
I thought about it. "Not really."
"Elementary school," she said. "When we thought getting a bad score meant the world would end."
"And then it didn't," I said.
"And then it didn't," she repeated, smiling faintly.
She picked up her pencil again, twirling it absently between her fingers. "Do you think we'll feel the same about these exams someday?"
"That they didn't matter?"
She nodded.
I hesitated. "Maybe."
"That's not convincing."
"I think," I said slowly, "they'll matter right now. And then later, they'll matter less. But we'll still remember feeling like they mattered."
She considered that. "That sounds like something someone older would say."
"Maybe I'm already old."
She scoffed. "You're terrible at being old."
She turned back to her book, but I noticed she wasn't really reading. Her eyes moved across the lines, but her thoughts seemed elsewhere, drifting the way they often did when she was tired or bored or just… comfortable.
A breeze came through the open window, lifting a few loose pages. She reached out to keep her notes from flying away, laughing softly under her breath.
"I can't wait for summer," she said.
"Because exams will be over?"
"That, and…" She trailed off, then shrugged. "Just because."
I nodded, even though I wasn't entirely sure what just because meant.
Summer had always been strange for us. The days grew longer, routines loosened, but somehow we still ended up in the same places—walking the same streets, stopping at the same corners, existing side by side without planning it.
"Do you think we'll still come here during summer?" she asked suddenly.
"To the clubroom?"
She nodded. "It feels weird to think about not coming."
"Someone would probably lock us out," I said.
"That would be rude."
"It's a school."
She sighed dramatically. "They don't understand us."
I smiled, and she noticed.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"That's suspicious."
"It's not."
She leaned closer, narrowing her eyes. "You're thinking something."
I shook my head. "I'm not."
"You are," she insisted. "You always get that look."
"What look?"
"That one," she said, pointing at my face vaguely. "Like you're about to say something and then decide not to."
I didn't know how to respond to that.
Eventually, she leaned back, satisfied. "Fine. Keep your secrets."
The bell signaling the end of club hours rang shortly after. Not loud, just loud enough to remind us that time was, once again, doing its job.
We packed up slowly.
She stacked her books carefully, slipped her sketchbook into her bag last, like an afterthought that wasn't really an afterthought. Outside, the sun was already beginning to sink, turning the edges of everything softer.
"Study tomorrow?" she asked as we walked out.
"Here?"
"Or at the library," she said. "Or anywhere, really."
"Anywhere sounds suspiciously unplanned."
"That's the point."
I agreed before thinking about it.
Outside, the streets were livelier than usual. Students walking home in clusters, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the buildings. The air smelled faintly of something fried from a nearby shop.
She walked a little faster than usual, excitement in her steps.
"I'm definitely going to forget everything by tomorrow," she said.
"You'll be fine."
"You say that like you know."
"I do know."
She glanced at me. "How?"
"Because you always are."
She looked away quickly, as if embarrassed by the certainty in my voice.
We stopped at a small crossing, waiting for the light to change. Cars passed by lazily. Someone's music played too loudly from an open window.
"When exams are over," she said, staring straight ahead, "we should do something."
"Like what?"
"I don't know yet," she admitted. "But something. Before summer gets busy."
"Busy with what?"
She smiled. "Exactly."
The light changed, and we crossed.
A few minutes later, near the familiar corner where our paths split, she slowed down.
"Tomorrow," she said again, like she wanted to make sure it was real.
"Tomorrow," I replied.
She hesitated, then added, "Don't study too much."
"That's rich, coming from you."
She laughed. "I'm serious."
"I'll try not to."
"Good."
She turned, took a few steps, then stopped and looked back.
"Oh," she said, almost as an afterthought. "You should come earlier tomorrow."
"Why?"
"So I don't have to wait."
The words were simple. Ordinary.
But something about the way she said them stayed with me.
"I will," I said.
She nodded once, satisfied, and continued down the street, her figure gradually blending into the early evening light.
I stood there for a moment longer than necessary.
Not because I was worried about exams.
Not because I was thinking about summer.
Just because, right then, everything felt exactly where it was supposed to be.