The day felt heavier.
Not storm-heavy. Not cloud heavy.
Just the quiet kind. The kind that wraps around you like a damp blanket not warm, not cold, just⦠there.
He walked to school like usual. Same shoes. Same bag. Same path.
But every step felt like he was walking into an unfinished story.
She didnât come. Again.
He kept glancing at the school gate. Once before assembly. Once before first period. Again, before lunch.
But nothing. No echo of her voice bouncing through the corridor.
No paper planes sailing into his direction.
Just the regular world â bland, predictable, untouched.
His bench felt colder today.
The classroom looked sharper.
He realized, for the first time, how loud silence could actually be.
And his ears⦠they were still searching.
Like theyâd developed a habit.
A rhythm. A frequency. One that only responded when she was near.
He didnât understand it.
Was it because she annoyed him?
Because she disturbed his peace?
Because she asked stupid questions about the sky and handed him broken pens like they were treasures?
Was that it?
No.
It was something else.
Something quieter. Something softer.
And he didnât have a name for it.
During art period, he sat by the window again.
He always liked that seat. It was the only place where the sky didnât feel like a stranger.
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Where he could pretend the world wasnât made of walls.
His fingers reached for the pencil again.
He wasnât planning to draw.
But something inside needed to move.
First, the clouds â slow, stretched across the page like memories.
Then birds â flying freely, weightless and unaware of the ground.
Then came the sky â open, endless, unbothered.
But today, the sky didnât feel enough.
It felt empty.
So, he kept going.
His hand moved without thought.
A curve. A shadow. A figure.
Eyes, half-closed. Hair, wild. Hands out â as if catching wind or letting go of something.
He paused. Looked at what heâd drawn.
It was her.
Not exactly.
But something like her.
The shape of her smile. The energy in her pose. The noise she left behind even when she wasn't there.
He stared at it for a long time.
Why had he drawn her?
He turned the page, pretending he didnât care.
But that face⦠it stayed in his mind.
Like a song he didnât remember learning but couldnât stop humming.
That night, he couldn't sleep.
Not deeply. Not really.
He just lay there, half-awake, replaying small moments in his head.
Her voice, laughing at her own dumb jokes.
Her eyes lighting up when he said nothing at all.
The way she once left him a quote written upside down, just to make him look twice.
And then the questions started.
Why was she being so nice to him?
Was it sympathy?
Did she see him as a sad project â a broken boy to be fixed before she moved on?
He hated that thought.
He hated how much it bothered him.
Because no one had been that kind to him before.
Not in the city. Not in that way.
And now⦠she was gone.
No message. No note. No sign.
Just gone â like a dream you barely remember but miss all day.
He sat up in bed. Pulled out the sketch again.
Looked at the face heâd drawn. The figure floating between clouds.
He added a few question marks in the background. Big, bold, floating like balloons about to pop.
He even wrote something in the corner of the page â barely legible:
> âWere you trying to heal me, or just feel less alone yourself?â
The words didnât feel like his.
They felt borrowed. Like they came from a part of him he didnât visit often.
He closed the book quickly.
Shoved it under his pillow.
Laid back down and stared at the ceiling like it held answers.
But there was nothing up there.
No voice. No sky. No, her.
Just a boy.
And a silence he used to loveâ¦
...until it started sounding like goodbye.