Days passed.
No replies.
No late-night messages.
No familiar vibration in my pocket.
I still saw her every day.
She sat there in class like nothing had changed—laughing softly with others, listening, writing notes, existing in the same space as me. Close enough to see, close enough to hear… but somehow farther than she had ever been.
I wanted to ask her what happened.
I wanted to say her name.
But the classroom was always crowded. Voices overlapping. People everywhere. And I was still me—introverted, hesitant, afraid of being seen asking for something I didn't know how to ask for.
So I didn't.
I stayed quiet.
I stayed in my seat and pretended to focus, while my mind kept circling the same question again and again.
What happened?
Games became my escape.
When I played, I didn't have to think about her absence. My hands moved on instinct, my focus narrowed to screens and controls. Every match kept my mind busy. Every moment distracted me from the questions I couldn't ask, the words I didn't know how to say.
But even there, she lingered.
I kept wondering if she noticed the silence too. If she thought about it the way I did. Or if she had already moved past it without realizing I was still standing there.
Eventually, I reached a conclusion.
If I couldn't talk to her in class—
I'd talk to her before class.
I knew her routine. Not intentionally at first. Just something I'd picked up over time. I was usually a little early to school. She arrived just a few minutes later.
So the next day, I left five minutes earlier than usual.
I waited.
Nothing.
She didn't come.
The next day, I tried again.
Earlier. More alert. Watching the road that connected to the school.
Still nothing.
By the third day, I almost gave up.
Almost.
But then I saw her.
She was on the opposite road—the one that curved slightly before meeting the main path to the school. Walking calmly, bag slung over her shoulder, hair catching the morning light.
My heart jumped.
I waited a second. Let her walk a little ahead. Then I crossed over and picked up my pace.
As I got closer, I raised my hand and waved.
"Good morning."
She turned, surprised.
Then she smiled.
"Good morning."
That was all it took to undo days of tension.
She slowed down, and without me asking, she said, "Let's go together."
We walked side by side toward the school gate.
The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable—but it was unfamiliar. Like a pause waiting to be filled.
As we neared the gate, I forced myself.
I couldn't let this moment pass.
"Lyra," I said, my voice quieter than I wanted it to be. "What… happened? You stopped texting. It's been days."
She looked at me for a moment.
Then she smiled.
Not a gentle smile.
A cheeky one.
"Oh," she said casually, "me and my honey had a fight. My phone broke, so I can't use it anymore."
I froze.
Honey?
Phone broke?
The words didn't register properly. I nodded slowly, pretending I understood, even though my mind was a mess of confusion.
Before I could ask anything else, we reached the gate.
And just like that, the moment was over.
In class, I couldn't focus.
So I asked my cousin—who sat a few rows away—about it.
He told me he'd heard her phone had fallen into water and stopped working completely.
Only then did it make sense.
But that realization didn't bring relief.
It brought something heavier.
Texting was gone.
The one place where I felt comfortable. The one space where words came easier. Where pauses didn't feel awkward. Where I could be honest without my voice shaking.
Now it was just… real life.
And I wasn't good at that.
I wanted to talk to her more.
I wanted to laugh again. To discuss small things. To feel her presence the way I used to—effortlessly.
But every time I tried to approach her, my words failed before they reached my mouth.
I stood there, fighting myself.
And losing.
Then the exams started.
We had to go to a different school to write them.
On the first day, during the assembly, I saw her standing just a few rows away from me. Close enough that I could feel her presence again—but still not close enough to speak.
I wrote my exams.
Days passed.
Questions. Answers. Silence.
And it went on,
But on the second-last exam day, as we were leaving, I saw her ahead of me.
She was alone.
Something inside me stirred.
This might be it, I thought.
School was almost over. Exams were ending. I didn't know when—or if—I'd get another chance like this.
I gathered every bit of courage I had.
I opened my mouth to call her—
And then I heard another voice.
A girl called her name.
Lyra turned back.
Instinct took over.
I stepped aside, hiding before I even realized what I was doing.
The girl reached her. Then another. And another.
They started talking, laughing, and walking home together.
I stood there watching.
Feeling small.
A little disappointed. A little tired. A little defeated.
Maybe this was how it was supposed to be.
Maybe this was the last chance, and I wasn't meant to take it.
I turned and walked home alone, telling myself it was okay.
That some things are meant to stay unfinished.
And maybe—
This was one of them.
And as I expected, I didn't see her on the last day of the exam.
I looked anyway.
I scanned the assembly ground. The corridors. The familiar corners where she might suddenly appear. But she wasn't there.
When the results came out, I searched again.
Names were called. Voices overlapped. People celebrated, complained, laughed. I stood among them, waiting for a glimpse of her face—some sign that this wasn't the end yet.
But she never showed up.
And just like that, it was over.
No more texts.
No more shared walks.
No more late-night conversations that made the days lighter.
There was no goodbye.
No explanation.
No final moment worth remembering.
Just absence.
For a while, I told myself it didn't matter. That this was how things always ended. That people came and went, and this was no different.
But the silence felt heavier than I expected.
She wasn't just someone I talked to.
She was someone who had become part of my days without asking permission. Someone whose presence had quietly settled into my routine. Someone I had planned to stay beside—without ever saying it out loud.
And now, she was gone.
That was it.
The story ended without warning, without closure.
And for the first time in my life, I learned what it felt like to lose a close friend—not through anger, not through distance, but through time quietly slipping away.
It didn't hurt sharply.
It hurt slowly.
Like realizing something important was missing only after you'd already learned how to live with it.