After that conversation, things didn't break.
There was no sudden distance, no cold silence, no dramatic moment that marked the end of something. We still talked. Still checked in. Still shared pieces of our days. Yet beneath every conversation, there was a quiet awareness.
I had said what I needed to say.
And she had heard it.
Whether she accepted it or not… I wasn't sure.
And I didn't ask.
For a while, things settled into a strange calm. Not uncomfortable—but thoughtful. As if both of us were being a little more careful with our words. A little more aware of what they might mean.
And then life, as it always does, kept moving.
School slowly took over most of my days.
Dimapur no longer felt unfamiliar—it felt routine. The classrooms stopped feeling new, the faces stopped standing out. Days blended into each other, marked only by attendance registers, notes on the board, and the quiet exhaustion that followed me home.
Time passed quickly there.
Too quickly.
Somewhere along the way, I made a friend I hadn't expected.
His name was Himmel whose house was far from the school—farther than mine—so every morning, he'd come to my place first. We'd walk to school together, the same road, the same timing, day after day. At first, our conversations were awkward. Polite. The kind where you talk just to fill the silence.
We didn't have much in common.
He loved playing the bass. Music was his thing.
I didn't play any instruments.
He didn't watch anime.
I didn't understand music beyond listening to it.
On paper, we shouldn't have clicked.
But there was one thing that bridged the gap.
Games.
We played the same MOBA.
That alone was enough.
Conversations that once felt forced became natural. We talked about strategies, characters, matches that went wrong, plays that worked out perfectly. Slowly, that shared interest turned into comfort. And comfort turned into friendship.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just steady.
Walking to school together became routine. Some days we talked the whole way. Other days, we walked quietly, tired but comfortable in the silence. I didn't overthink it. And for once, I didn't feel the need to.
Dimapur itself was another challenge.
The heat was relentless.
It clung to everything—the air, the classrooms, the walk back home. I had always worn sweaters and blazers, even when I didn't need to. Not because of the cold, but because of my insecurities. Being thin had always made me uncomfortable in my own skin, and covering up felt safer.
But Dimapur didn't care about that.
The heat was too much.
Day after day, I felt suffocated. Sweat soaked through layers that no longer made sense. And slowly, reluctantly, I gave in. I stopped wearing the blazer to school. Then the sweater. It felt exposing at first—like I was stepping outside without armor.
But nothing happened.
No one stared. No one commented. No one cared.
And that realization stayed with me longer than the discomfort ever did.
I didn't change much—and that felt oddly reassuring. I was still quiet. Still reserved. Still someone who observed more than he spoke. I kept my small circle close and untouched. Conversations stayed light, safe, predictable. Games. Random topics. Things that didn't ask too much from me.
I didn't push myself to become someone else. And I didn't disappear either.
I existed somewhere in between.
Evenings were usually quiet. That was when my phone rang the most.
My mother called often—more than I expected. Sometimes just to ask if I had eaten, sometimes to remind me to sleep early, sometimes for no reason at all. And every time, I made sure my voice sounded lighter than I felt. I laughed more. I spoke with confidence. I told her I was doing fine—even on days when I wasn't.
I didn't want them to worry. They had already worried enough when I left.
As the calls became regular—several times a week—I started noticing a pattern.
My mother was always the one speaking. But my father was always there.
I could hear him in the background—never loud, never directly speaking to me. Just his voice, slightly distant, asking questions.
"Has he been eating properly?"
A short pause.
"Does he need more allowance?"
Another pause.
And then my mother would repeat the exact same questions to me, as if they were hers.
"Do you need more allowance?"
Or—
"Are you eating properly?"
Sometimes—
"How are your studies going?"
She never said it was him asking. She didn't have to.
My father was always awkward like that. He didn't know how to talk to me directly—not about school, not about money, not about how I was doing. So he used my mother instead. She was the bridge between us.
And honestly, it made me smile.
Hearing his voice in the background, pretending not to be involved, while clearly listening to every word I said.
It was his way of caring.
Quiet. Indirect. A little clumsy.
But real.
Classes went on. Teachers rotated. Subjects piled up. Assignments came and went. I stayed consistent—not outstanding, not failing. Just steady. The kind of presence that doesn't attract attention but doesn't vanish either.
And in between all of that, Lyra remained.
Not always at the center—but never completely absent.
Our bond didn't grow louder. It grew quieter. More stable. Less intense, but more grounded. There were no more heavy conversations about the future. No more arguments about forever. Just moments. Small check-ins. Shared thoughts at the end of the day.
Maybe that was her way of understanding.
Or maybe it was just time doing what it does best.
Days kept slipping past, and before I realized it, weeks had gone by.
Then months.
The air around school began to change.
Teachers spoke more seriously. Notes became heavier. Revisions replaced introductions. Casual warnings about "what's coming next" started appearing more often than jokes.
Exams were no longer a distant thing. They were approaching.
Slowly. Inevitably.
And with them came a quiet pressure—not panic, not fear, but awareness. The sense that another phase was nearing its end. That once again, something was moving forward whether I was ready or not.
All I knew was this—
Time wasn't waiting for me to decide.