"Oh, fucking hell." Literature exam. Of all the subjects, it had to be the one that demands interpretation. overthinking. "Oh God, how I hate writing, let alone reading and analysing stories." I mutter under my breath while scanning the classroom as if it is a battlefield instead of a place for exams. Everyone looks tense, flipping pages, whispering last-minute reminders to themselves. I roll my shoulders and pretend I am calmer than I feel. Then I see her. Anna. Sitting alone. Of course, she is sitting alone. Front table, slightly turned toward the window, book open, lips moving silently as she revises. She looks too focused, too composed. It irritates me how naturally literature fits her. She belongs in this subject the way I belong anywhere else. I glance around again, calculating. Okay. It's now or never. I am going to sit behind her. Talking will work on its own. It always does. I walk over casually, as if I have no intention other than finding a seat, and settle behind her. She does not turn immediately, but I know she knows I am there. Anna always senses me.I lean forward slightly and call her name a second time. She turns back to me. 'Can I use your paper for revision?' I ask her simply. Neutral. She says, 'No problem,' and hands it over without drama. Good. No resistance. I tap her back again after a moment because silence with her feels heavier than silence with anyone else. "Do you know the meaning of your name?" I ask, repeating it the way she once pronounced it in that soft French tone that made half the class laugh and the other half stare. She turns this time, eyes sharp but controlled. "Of course I know it," she replies. I ask anyway. "What does it mean?" I want to hear her say it. "Grace or Gracious." The word lingers. "Gracious," it fits her more than she understands. I nod slowly, pretending the information is new, when really I just wanted to see how she would respond. She turns back to her book again, stubborn. I tap her once more and ask about prose writing tips, listening carefully as she lists them with that serious tone she uses when she is explaining something properly. She does not realize how attractive it is when she speaks with confidence. Then I decide to test something. "We haven't been talking for some time," I say casually. "We should talk this weekend." She replies that she is going home on Friday. That catches me off guard. I did not expect that. For a second, I feel the plan slipping. "So if you're going home on Friday, I'll try to remove the gap and stay the rest of the remaining days with you as much as possible." I say it lightly, but I mean it more than I should. She laughs instead of answering. That laugh. It is safer than words. The bell rings before I can push further. I wish her good luck and she wishes me the same, and as she walks toward the exam room I notice the faint color rising on her cheeks. She thinks I do not see it. I see everything. The truth is, I do not hate literature as much as I claim. I hate that in literature everything hidden eventually gets revealed. Metaphors expose what characters try to bury. Intentions bleed through dialogue. And if anyone were to analyse me the way Anna analyses texts, they would notice it too — that I sat behind her not because of the exam, not because I needed prose tips, but because I needed to see if she would look back.
When the literature exam ends, I walk out slower than usual, stretching my neck as if the stiffness comes only from writing and not from thinking too much. Students spill into the corridor, comparing answers, arguing about themes and character motives, but I am not listening. My eyes move instinctively, searching without making it obvious. I spot her a few steps ahead, walking with Ivy, looking lighter than she did before the exam, almost relaxed. I look away before she turns. There is no reason to stare. I head back to the dorm to change into my sports clothes, letting the familiar routine ground me. The field always clears my head. The noise, the running, the structure of the game — it simplifies everything. When I get there, I start playing as usual, my movements automatic, controlled, focused. I laugh with the guys, call for the ball, and honestly, volleyball is fun for real, the rhythm of it steady and predictable. But somewhere in between serves and passes, I feel it — that subtle sensation of being watched. Not in a dramatic way. Just a quiet awareness that shifts something inside me. I glance toward the edge of the field, and there she is. Anna. Standing a little apart with Ivy, arms folded loosely, observing while chatting softly with her little friend. She is not smiling widely or waving. She is simply there. Watching. I do not react outwardly, but something inside me straightens automatically. I play a little sharper, a little faster. Not to impress her. At least that is what I tell myself. It just feels different knowing she is there. When practice ends, I grab my bottle and walk past her closer than necessary, lowering my voice just enough so only she can hear. "I'll see you later, Gracious." I let the word linger slightly before heading toward the dorms without waiting for a reply. She nods, composed as always, but I catch the brief flicker in her eyes before I turn away. First prep comes, and I find myself waiting without admitting that I am waiting. I sit down, open a book, glance at the door once, then twice. She does not walk in. That is unusual. The headgirl enters a few minutes later, scanning the room and asking if anyone has seen Anna. "The headmaster needs to see her," she says, and that catches my attention immediately. I pretend not to care, but I listen carefully. A small irritation builds — not because she is in trouble, but because I did not know. Time passes slowly. Students begin packing up for supper, chairs scraping against the floor, voices rising again. I stand near the doorway longer than necessary, leaning against the wall as if I am just stretching my legs. Then I see her coming down the corridor with a few others, clearly from the director's office. So that is where she was. Relief settles quietly in my chest. I do not approach her. There is no need to make it obvious. I confirm what I needed to know and head to supper with the rest. The dining hall is loud, plates clattering, conversations overlapping, but my mind drifts back to small details — the way she stood at the field, the way she looked at me during practice, the way she always keeps her reactions controlled and predictable. I do not want these thoughts. Yet I notice they keep returning, uncontrolled, without invitation. Second prep arrives, and for the first time in days, I feel unusually discouraged to go back to class. Instead of attending prep two, I lie down on my bed, staring at the ceiling above me. The dorm is quieter than usual, the air still. I replay the day in fragments — her voice during revision earlier, her presence at the field, the fact that she had to see the headmaster. I tell myself I am only thinking because it was an eventful day. That is all. I am cool with Mary. That part of my life is clear and stable. With Anna, it is different. It is easy to talk to her. Easy to sit near her. Easy to feel lighter for no particular reason. I do not need to complicate myself. I am just me. I close my eyes finally, deciding that tomorrow will sort itself out on its own. Some things do not need to be defined. Some things are just there.
I'm lying on my bed tonight, staring at the ceiling while the dorm slowly goes quiet. I am replaying the entire day in my head, recalling everything that happened. The art exam started in mild frustration. It was ironic because art is one of the few things I am actually bad at, and I showed up without all my materials. I scanned the room, trying not to look unprepared, until I spotted Anna running past with two pencils in her hand. She looked focused, slightly rushed, her steps quick but controlled. I called out to her without thinking too much and asked if she could lend me one. She handed it to me easily, without hesitation, without teasing, just simply. Our fingers brushed for a brief second, and I felt that small awareness I began recognizing whenever she is close. We then rushed toward our exam rooms along with everyone else, and I told myself it's nothing more than a normal interaction. The exam itself went well. I felt confident while sketching, steady in my lines.
Later in the evening during prep one, I finally spoke to her properly. The conversation unfolded naturally, but what stayed with me was the moment I asked for forgiveness. Even recalling it surprises me. I'm not someone who apologizes easily. Yet with her, the words came out without resistance, as if clearing the air mattered more than pride. I couldn't explain why it felt necessary, only that it had. In the dining hall afterward, I couldn't tear my eyes off her. She had looked happy and relieved, lighter than earlier in the day. For some reason, seeing that expression on her face had made me feel lighter too. It had been subtle, unintentional. By the time prep two arrived, I spotted her before even step fully into the classroom. She was sitting in the far corner, as usual. I went directly to sit beside her without over-analyzing the decision. She didn't say a thing. Instead, she took my hand and drew a star on it with her black marker, just like she used to before. The gesture felt simple, almost childish, yet it held a familiarity I didn't question. I watched her concentrate, and for a moment I wanted to stay there longer than I should. But I remembered my plans with Mary. So I told Anna I had a date, and that I had to go. My voice remained calm. She let go without protest, and I left to meet Mary in the other class. With Mary, everything was steadily quiet and dull at some point. We talked a little, then silence, and that silence always makes me question the decision of making her my girl. There had been no tension, nothing but silences and unspoken words. It had been. Hard to stay longer. With Mary, things are complicated and insecure. With Anna, moments lingered longer than they logically should have. Conversations replayed themselves without invitation. Small gestures stayed in my mind. I told myself it's simply normal, but maybe it's not. I don't need to label anything beyond that though. Closing my eyes eventually, convincing myself it had only been an ordinary day, even though I knew I'll probably replay parts of it again before sleep takes me away.