Exams arrived.
Not with panic or chaos—but with inevitability.
The air around school felt different. Conversations grew shorter. Laughter faded faster. Teachers stopped digressing and started underlining words like important and very likely to come. Desks filled with scribbles, margins crowded with last-minute notes.
Lyra had her exams too.
And because of that, we talked less.
Not intentionally.
Not because anything was wrong.
Just… less.
Messages were shorter. Replies came late. Sometimes they didn't come at all until the next day. There was no tension in it—just priority. Syllabi over sentiments. Timetables over emotions. And we both understood that.
Exams had a way of narrowing the world.
Most of my days revolved around studying. Himmel came over often, usually in the afternoons. His house was far—farther than mine—but during exams, distance didn't matter much. He showed up with books under his arm, already focused.
Accountancy became our main concern.
We practiced sums again and again. Adjustments. Final accounts. Problems that looked familiar until they suddenly didn't. Some days we understood things quickly. Other days, we stared at the same page for hours, trying to make sense of numbers that refused to balance.
The night before Accountancy felt heavy.
The morning of the exam even more so.
I remember sitting in the hall, pen in hand, waiting for the paper to be distributed. When it finally was, I took a breath and started writing. Some questions felt manageable. Others took time. But I didn't freeze.
I wrote steadily.
Two days later came Business Studies.
Those two days were quieter. Less pressure, but not relief. Just revision, notes, short discussions with Himmel. We talked less and studied more. By then, we had settled into an unspoken rhythm.
Paper after paper, the pattern repeated.
Study.
Wait.
Write.
Recover.
Exams stretched across three weeks, almost a month. Each subject carried its own weight, but none overwhelmed me completely. By the end, I wasn't confident—but I wasn't disappointed either.
I felt like I had done enough.
When the last paper ended, it didn't feel dramatic. No celebration. No sudden happiness. Just exhaustion and a quiet sense of completion.
The first term was over.
Winter break had arrived.
It was time to go home.
A few days before leaving, my parents called.
As usual, my mother did most of the talking. She asked about exams, about food, about my health. Her questions came one after another, layered with concern. Somewhere in the background, I could hear my father's voice—low, familiar—asking things she would soon repeat to me.
She asked about my journey too.
She sounded unsure. Worried.
She asked if it would be better if they came to Dimapur to pick me up. Said it would be safer. Easier. That I wouldn't have to travel alone for so long.
I told her no.
Dimapur was too far. The drive would be exhausting. I said I'd be fine. That I would come back with Cleaven. That I had done this before.
She didn't argue—but she didn't sound convinced either.
I reassured her again. Spoke calmly. Confidently. Told her not to worry.
After the call ended, the room felt quieter than usual.
I lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how much they worried. Not just now—but ever since I had come here. How unsure they had been. How afraid they were that I wouldn't manage. That I wouldn't know how to take care of myself.
And lying there, I made a quiet decision.
This time, when I went home, I wouldn't let them worry like that again.
I would act more mature.
More composed.
Better than before.
Not because I had changed overnight—but because I wanted them to believe I had. Because if they thought I was doing fine, maybe they could finally rest a little.
Before leaving Dimapur, I said my goodbyes. Athree—my elder brother—had been there throughout. Responsible, calm, always watching over things quietly. Our goodbye was simple. A few words. A nod. The kind that didn't need explaining.
Then I left with Cleaven.
The journey back home took around twelve hours. Long stretches of road, changing skies, towns passing by without names. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we didn't. I spent most of the time looking out the window, letting thoughts drift.
By the time we reached home, it was already late.
My parents were waiting.
Their faces held two emotions at once—relief and worry, tangled together. My mother smiled first, then immediately asked if I was tired. My father stood close by, quiet as ever, observing.
And suddenly, before they could ask anything else, I felt the urge rise.
To speak first.
To reassure them.
To tell them I was okay.
I smiled more than usual.
I spoke confidently.
I told them everything was fine.
I said the exams went well. That I was managing. That there was nothing to worry about.
I chose to sound better than I felt.
Because they had worried too much when I left. Because I didn't want to be the reason they worried again. Because if I acted strong enough, maybe they would finally believe I was.
So I pretended.
I decided to be better than I was.
To sound stronger than I felt.
Not to lie—but to protect.
That was the moment it started.
The habit of pretending.
For their sake.