A few days later — soft morning light, calm weather after days of rain.
After that evening, they stopped talking for a while — not completely, but differently.
No more long conversations, no teasing, no late-night messages.
Just small words — "hi," "okay," "see you," — like strangers trying to sound like friends.
She smiled, but not like before.
He spoke, but his voice no longer had that warmth.
They had both decided — maybe without saying it — to keep it simple now.
Time started passing quietly.
In class, they sat near each other, but something invisible was between them —
not anger, not hate… just silence filled with memories.
Sometimes their eyes met accidentally,
and in that one second, everything they'd said — and everything they hadn't — came rushing back.
But neither said a word.
It's been a while since their fight. Things between them are calm now — not broken, not close, just… safe.
She acts fine, hides her emotions behind a soft smile. He talks to her normally, but avoids anything personal.
One day, she gets late to leave. Rain starts again — same place where everything had begun once. He silently takes his jacket off and holds it above her head, saying quietly,
"Don't catch a cold again. You always forget your umbrella."
She looks at him, surprised. That small care hits deep. She just nods.
Later, in class or the hallway, they start sharing small talks again — a tease here, a smile there. He helps her with something simple — a project, a file, or a book she dropped.
She realizes the old warmth still hides behind those small moments.
He acts like nothing happened, but his tone has softened too.
Both know — they can't go back to what they were, but neither wants to lose what they still have.