A soft tap landed on his desk from behind.
It wasn't urgent.
Not sharp enough to demand attention. Not forceful enough to interrupt thought. Just a light, hesitant touch—like someone knocking on a door they weren't sure they were allowed to open.
His pen paused mid-word.
For half a second, he wondered if he had imagined it. Exams had a way of doing that—making the smallest sounds feel exaggerated, unreal. He kept his eyes on the paper, waiting.
Then it happened again.
Another tap. Slightly firmer this time.
He lifted his head just a little, not turning fully, only enough to acknowledge the interruption. Before he could speak, a voice reached him from behind.
"Excuse me…"
It was soft.
Not shy exactly—but careful. Polite in the way people are when they don't want to impose. The kind of voice that asks permission just by existing.
He froze.
Not outwardly. Not visibly. But something inside him stalled, like a machine missing a beat.
"Yes?" he replied, his own voice lower than usual, almost automatic.
"I—could you… could you please pass this to the person next to you?"
He turned slightly, just enough to take the small object she was holding out. An eraser. Worn at the edges, with faint pencil marks pressed into its surface. Their fingers didn't touch. There was a careful gap between them, measured and deliberate.
"Sure," he said.
That was it.
No awkwardness. No hesitation. No accidental glance.
He passed the eraser to the boy sitting beside him, who took it with a distracted nod, already lost in his answers. The transaction was completed in seconds—efficient, forgettable, insignificant.
Or at least, it should have been.
He turned back to his paper.
But his hand didn't move.
The exam hall sounded different now. The hum of the ceiling fan felt louder. The scratch of pens sharper. The air heavier, as if something unseen had settled into the space just behind him.
He tried to continue writing.
His pen hovered.
He told himself it was nothing. Just a voice. Just a request. People spoke during exams all the time—for pens, for extra sheets, for clarification from the invigilator. There was no reason for his focus to waver.
And yet—
That voice lingered.
Not the words. The tone.
There had been no urgency in it. No stress. Just calm politeness. As if she had no doubt he would help. As if the world, for her, responded kindly when asked quietly.
He finished the line he had paused on, forcing his attention back into the answer. His handwriting returned to its usual rhythm, but the ease was gone. Something had shifted, almost imperceptibly.
He did not turn around.
He did not look.
He told himself there was no need.
He didn't know her. She didn't know him. They were two students sharing nothing but air and a temporary arrangement of seats.
Still, his awareness stretched backward.
He noticed things he hadn't before—the faint rustle of fabric when she moved, the way her chair barely made a sound, the steadiness of her presence. She didn't fidget. She didn't sigh. She didn't whisper again.
She simply returned to her paper.
And somehow, that quiet confidence—so unassuming, so natural—made the space behind him feel occupied in a new way.
Time passed.
The invigilator walked between rows, shoes tapping softly against the floor. Someone at the front raised a hand for extra sheets. Pages turned. Pens paused and resumed.
He kept writing.
But now, every few minutes, a thought surfaced uninvited.
What does she look like?
He dismissed it immediately. It was curiosity, nothing more. Human instinct. You hear a voice; your mind tries to attach a face to it.
That was all.
He finished the section he was working on and moved to the next question. His concentration returned in fragments, not whole. Each time he settled back into the flow, something tugged gently at the edge of his awareness.
Behind him.
She did not speak again.
And that made it worse.
The silence after her voice felt louder than the voice itself.
When the bell finally rang, sharp and final, the room exhaled as one. Pens stopped. Shoulders relaxed. Chairs shifted. The exam was over.
He put his pen down slowly.
Only then did he realize something strange.
He still hadn't seen her.
Not her face. Not even her reflection.
Just a voice.
Just a presence.
Just a moment that had slipped into him quietly and refused to leave.
As students began to stand and gather their belongings, he felt an unexpected hesitation. A pause he hadn't planned for. His instincts told him to pack his things and leave, like always.
But another impulse—small, insistent—held him still.
Just one glance, it whispered.
Just to know.
He stood up.
And for the first time since she had spoken, he began to turn.
And that was when the invigilator called out the names for verification.