The results didn't arrive all at once.
They never did. They appeared quietly, at different times, through different screens, spoken in different voices. There was no single moment where everything became clear. Just a slow accumulation of certainty, piece by piece, until there was nothing left to wait for except what came next.
I checked the results alone.
It felt important to do it that way, even though no one had said it should be. My room was quiet. The window was open just enough to let in the sound of the street below—footsteps, a bicycle passing, a distant train. Familiar noises, unchanged.
The website took longer than it should have to load.
I stared at the screen without thinking much, not hopeful or anxious exactly—just focused. When the result finally appeared, it took me a second to register what I was looking at.
Accepted.
The word felt smaller than I expected. Flat. Almost provisional.
I closed the tab and sat back in my chair, letting the moment pass without reacting to it. Relief came later, slowly, settling in my shoulders rather than my chest. Nothing about it felt like an ending. It felt like permission to stop holding my breath.
I sent a message to my parents. They replied almost immediately, relief and pride condensed into short sentences and exclamation points. I thanked them, told them I'd explain later, and put my phone face down on the desk.
Then I stared at it again.
I waited longer than I needed to before unlocking the screen.
Results came out today.
I typed it, erased it, typed it again.
I got in.
The message sent.
I didn't know whether I wanted an immediate reply or not.
When it came, it was simple.
Me too.
I read it more than once.
Same place?
There was a pause this time. Not a long one. Just long enough to notice.
Yeah.
That was all.
No excitement. No plans. No suggestion of celebration.
I told myself it didn't mean anything. That we were both tired. That this was just how things were now.
It was enough.
The days that followed were strange.
Study schedules dissolved overnight. Books were put away, not ceremoniously, but absent-mindedly, as if we weren't sure whether we might need them again. Mornings lost their urgency. I woke up later than usual, still reaching instinctively for routines that no longer applied.
Everyone said the same things.
You've done well.
You should rest now.
Enjoy the break before college starts.
Rest was harder than expected.
Without preparation to structure the days, time stretched unevenly. Some afternoons disappeared quickly. Others dragged, heavy and indistinct. I went for walks without destinations, letting my feet decide where to go. I passed familiar places—the station, the convenience store, the crossing—without stopping.
Sometimes I wondered where she was at that exact moment.
I didn't ask.
We messaged occasionally.
Not about anything important.
Did you get the enrollment documents?
Yeah. They came today.
Same.
Once, she sent a photo of a form spread across her desk.
So much paperwork.
I smiled at that.
Feels like school again.
Worse, she replied. At least school told us where to sit.
The conversation ended there, not awkwardly, just… naturally. Like we'd reached the end of what needed to be said.
I began to notice how carefully I was choosing my words now.
Not just with her—with everyone. As if this period required a different way of speaking. Less certainty. Fewer assumptions. Everything felt provisional, suspended between what had already happened and what hadn't yet begun.
Sometimes I thought about asking to meet.
The thought would appear quietly, without urgency, then fade again just as easily. There was no reason we couldn't. We lived in the same town. We had time now.
And yet, the idea felt heavier than it used to.
I told myself we'd see each other soon enough.
Spring moved forward.
The trees near the river filled out, their branches no longer tentative. The air warmed enough that jackets stayed at home more often than not. Evenings stretched longer again, the sky refusing to darken until it was nearly time for dinner.
One afternoon, while walking past the station, I spotted her across the street.
She stood near the crossing, phone in hand, hair caught slightly by the breeze. She looked the same. Maybe a little lighter, like something had eased in her posture now that the exams were behind her.
I slowed instinctively.
She didn't see me.
By the time the signal changed, she had already crossed and disappeared into the crowd on the other side. I stood there a moment longer, then continued on my way, the crossing bell ringing behind me.
That night, I wondered whether I should have called out.
I didn't regret not doing it.
I just noticed the absence of regret.
Enrollment deadlines approached.
Forms were filled. Fees paid. Schedules confirmed. The university sent emails that assumed certainty, as if everything was already decided. Orientation dates were announced. Campus maps attached.
I saved them without opening them immediately.
She messaged again, late one evening.
Orientation is on the same day for both of us.
Yeah. I saw.
Feels weird.
It does.
There was a pause.
I guess we'll see each other there.
I stared at the message longer than necessary.
I guess so.
I set the phone down and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
We were going to the same place.
We knew that now.
And yet, everything between now and then felt uncertain.
Not distant. Not broken.
Just undefined.
As the days counted down toward April, I realized this waiting period was doing something quietly irreversible. It wasn't pulling us apart, exactly. It was loosening the shape we'd once fit into so easily.
We were no longer preparing for the same thing.
We were preparing in parallel.
And for the first time, I couldn't tell whether that meant we were moving toward each other again—
or simply learning how to move forward without needing to know.