By the time winter fully loosened its grip, everyone was tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the quieter kind—the one that settled into posture and tone, that showed up in how long people stared at their notes before turning a page. The school felt heavier now, weighed down by expectations that followed us from room to room.
Exam dates were circled in red.
Mock results were handed back with practiced seriousness. Teachers spoke more slowly, as if clarity could ease anxiety. Hallway conversations revolved around numbers, rankings, target schools. Even casual jokes seemed to end sooner, like no one wanted to spend too much energy on anything that didn't matter later.
She sat near the window again.
Not because it was her seat this time, but because she arrived early enough to choose it. Sunlight filtered in weakly, pale and undecided, touching the edge of her desk. Her notebook was open, pages filled with neat writing, margins crowded with small corrections.
The sketchbook wasn't there.
I noticed that first.
I sat a few rows behind her, far enough that I couldn't see what she was writing, close enough to recognize the familiar slope of her shoulders when she concentrated. She didn't turn around. She rarely did anymore.
During the break, she found me near the lockers.
"You look exhausted," she said.
"So do you."
"That's because I am."
She leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly, like she was letting go of something she'd been holding all morning.
"Do you remember," she asked suddenly, "when we used to complain about exams like they were the worst thing in the world?"
"They still are."
She shook her head. "No. This is worse."
I didn't argue.
We stood there for a moment, surrounded by the sound of other students moving past us, all of them headed somewhere specific. When the bell rang, she straightened immediately.
"Library?" I asked.
She hesitated. "For a bit."
For a bit had become our compromise.
We sat at the same table we always did, sunlight fading as the afternoon passed. The room was quiet, filled with the sound of pages turning, pens scratching, someone coughing softly at the far end. I tried to focus, but my attention kept drifting to the empty space where her sketchbook used to be.
"You haven't been drawing," I said quietly.
She paused, then looked up. "I have. Just… not much."
"Oh."
"It's hard to concentrate on it right now," she added. "I keep thinking I should be doing something else."
"Something more useful."
She smiled faintly. "Exactly."
We studied in silence after that.
Time moved strangely in the library. Minutes stretched, then disappeared. When we finally packed up, the sky outside had already begun to darken, the light turning cooler, sharper.
We walked together toward the station, steps slower than usual.
"I'm glad we still do this," she said, staring ahead.
"Do what?"
"Walk together," she said. "Even if it's not for long."
I nodded. "Me too."
She glanced at me, then looked away, like she wasn't sure whether to say more.
At the station, the platform was busier than usual. Students stood in clusters, some talking nervously, others staring down the tracks, lost in their own thoughts. The air smelled faintly of metal and electricity.
She checked the time again.
"You're leaving early," I said.
"I have to," she replied. "I promised myself I wouldn't stay out late anymore."
"That's new."
She shrugged. "Everything's new."
The train announcement echoed across the platform. She shifted her bag higher on her shoulder, then hesitated.
"Hey," she said. "After exams… let's do something."
"Like what?"
"I don't know yet," she admitted. "But something. Just us."
I felt a brief, unfamiliar tightness in my chest.
"Okay," I said. "After exams."
She smiled, relieved, like the promise itself mattered more than the plan.
The train arrived with a rush of wind and sound, doors opening, people moving. She stepped back, letting others pass, then paused.
"You'll text me later?" she asked.
"Of course."
She nodded, then boarded the train.
I watched through the window as she found a seat, turned once, and lifted her hand in a small wave before the doors closed. The train pulled away, lights blurring as it disappeared into the distance.
I stood there longer than I needed to.
That night, I waited for her message.
It came later than usual.
Sorry. Fell asleep while studying.
I stared at the screen, then typed back.
It's okay. Get some rest.
A few minutes passed before the reply came.
You too.
That was all.
The days leading up to the exams blurred together.
We saw each other less. When we did, it was brief—exchanging notes, wishing luck, sharing tired smiles that didn't quite reach our eyes. Conversations stayed on the surface, careful not to disturb whatever fragile balance we'd settled into.
On the morning of the first exam, I spotted her across the courtyard.
She stood alone, notes in hand, lips moving slightly as she reviewed something under her breath. I almost went over to her. Almost said something reassuring.
Instead, the bell rang.
After the exams ended each day, students poured out of classrooms, expressions ranging from relief to quiet panic. We exchanged messages—short, functional.
How was it?
Okay, I think.
Same.
On the last day, as we left the building together, she let out a long breath.
"That's it," she said. "For now."
"For now," I echoed.
We walked without talking, exhaustion settling between us like a shared weight. At the corner where we usually parted, she stopped.
"I'll message you later," she said.
I nodded. "I'll wait."
She smiled, tired but genuine, and turned away.
I watched her go, a familiar habit by now, and wondered why the promise of later felt heavier than it used to.
That evening, as I sat at my desk, surrounded by books I didn't want to look at anymore, I thought about the things we'd postponed.
After exams.
After results.
After everything settled down.
I told myself there would be time.
I didn't yet understand how quietly time had begun to make its own decisions.