The morning was the same.
Same sky. Same clouds. Same uniform.
But something felt missing.
She didnât come.
No loud footsteps down the hallway.
No crumpled paper notes on his desk.
No strange gifts or silly questions.
Just⦠silence.
At first, he told himself it didnât matter.
She was just a classmate.
Just a loud, annoying girl who liked to leave feathers on his bench and ask him about the sky.
But by the first break, his ears were still⦠listening.
For something.
For someone.
He realized it then â
he wasnât used to silence anymore.
Not her kind of silence. The kind that filled space, even when she said nothing.
The kind that made noise without speaking.
He stared out the window, like he always did.
The clouds were flowing slow today.
Soft. Lazy. Like they had nowhere to be.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Usually, that calmed him.
But today, the sky looked lonely.
He took out his sketchbook, almost without thinking.
Let his pencil move, just to feel something.
Lines began to take shape â clouds, birds, maybe a small hill in the corner.
But something was missing.
He added more details. Shadows. Light.
Still, something felt⦠wrong.
Empty.
It wasnât the sky.
It was her.
That strange, silly, too-loud girl.
The one who made him feel like noise wasnât always a bad thing.
The one who left chocolate bars and asked questions with no answers.
He didnât know why she wasnât there.
Maybe she was sick. Maybe she was gone.
Maybe she realized he wasnât worth saving.
He didnât want to care.
But when the final bell rang and the day ended without her laugh echoing down the stairwellâ¦
he did.
He walked home slower than usual.
His feet dragging like his thoughts.
The streets looked sharper today. The buildings taller.
The city â louder, somehow â and yet completely silent inside his head.
He opened his notebook again that night.
Let the pencil move like it always did.
This time, it didnât draw clouds.
It didnât draw birds.
It drew a girl â
arms wide like wings,
hair floating like smoke,
eyes looking away.
He stopped when he realized what he was doing.
Stared at the page.
And then whispered, almost scared to hear his own voice in the room:
ââ¦why do I miss you?â
There was no answer.
Just the sound of a quiet room.
And a heart that wasnât used to being listened to.