The day began like all the others.
Classes drifted by slowly, one after another, with that rhythm that felt lighter after exams, less pressing. The professors' voices mixed with the sound of pens, pages turning, the small distracted movements of students.
She was present, but different. Not distracted — more attentive. Every now and then her gaze slipped away from the pages, without meaning to, like a reflex.
She saw him. Always in the same spot, always in the same way of sitting: straight back, movements reduced to a minimum, a precise stillness she had learned to recognize. And every time, the same question came back to her.
*Where does he go?*
It wasn't loud curiosity. It was subtler, almost annoying — a thought that returns even when you don't want it to.
At some point she saw him get up, as always, without speaking to anyone, without looking around. Just the simple gesture of grabbing his backpack and leaving. She stayed still for a second, her eyes still on him, then she got up too.
At first it was easy. She could see him ahead of her, at the right distance, his pace steady. The hallway was crowded — people leaving classrooms, voices, backpacks bumping — and this hid her, let her move among the others without drawing attention. Or so it seemed to her.
Then, as she walked, the thought began to take up space. *Why am I following him? What am I doing?* She lowered her eyes slightly, as if someone could read it on her face. It wasn't a decision, more like a drift — as if it had already started before she could really choose.
He turned a corner. She quickened her pace, her breath coming a little shorter.
When she turned the corner, the hallway was empty. Sudden, sharp silence. No trace of him. She stopped short, looked right, then left. Nothing. A small hollow opened in her stomach.
"…huh?"
The sound came out before she could think. She took a few steps forward, looked around again, more slowly — the walls, the closed doors, the hallway too long, everything the same. A couple of people passed behind her; one glanced at her for a moment, and she looked away, heat rising to her cheeks.
"You idiot…" she muttered to herself, more out of frustration than anything else.
"I wouldn't say that."
The voice came from behind. Close. Too close.
She spun around. He was there, leaning against the wall, one shoulder against it, a cigarette between his fingers. His gaze calm, neutral, as if he'd always been there. He had watched everything, unhurried.
She stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat. Then her body reacted before her mind did.
"I… can explain—"
Her voice came out broken, stammering, too fast. He took a drag from the cigarette, the smoke rising slowly between them, without looking away.
"Did you really think you could follow me without me noticing?"
Silence. The words landed on her simple, direct. She opened her mouth, then closed it again — the words wouldn't come out right.
"No… I mean… I…" She stopped. Breathed in. "I was curious." A pause. "You always leave at the same time… and… I don't know…" Her shoulders lifted slightly, a small, defensive gesture. "I was curious."
The silence that followed was longer. He looked at her for a few seconds, his expression unchanged. Then he put out the cigarette against the wall — a sharp, clean gesture — and pushed off from it.
He said nothing. He turned and started walking again, as if the conversation had ended there. As if it had never begun.
She stood still for a moment. The hallway came back to life around her — voices, footsteps, noise. Then she watched him walk away, and followed him again.
They walked for a few minutes, outside, in the colder air, until they reached an old building, ordinary, almost anonymous. He went in without looking back. She hesitated for a moment, then followed him in.
An apartment. Simple interior, warm light, the smell of home.
An elderly woman in the kitchen turned around.
"Who are you?"
She stopped. Silence. He stood in front of her, calm.
"I'm your grandson."
The woman looked at him, confused. "I… don't have any grandchildren."
A pause. He smiled — barely, almost nothing, but enough to change everything.
"Not for a while."
The girl stood frozen. Surprised, confused — not just by what she was hearing, but by him. By that smile. She had never seen him like that. Not like that.
The woman's gaze shifted to her. "And who are you?" A pause. Then, casually: "His girlfriend?"
Silence. She stiffened.
"No—I… no." Too fast. She stopped. The words got tangled. *We go to the same university. We're not friends. We live together.* But saying it out loud sounded strange. Wrong.
"We're… I mean…"
She froze. She couldn't put together a sentence that made sense.
He cut her off. Without raising his voice, without hesitation.
"No." A short pause. "She's no one."
Silence. The word hung in the air. She lowered her eyes. She said nothing — not because she had no words, but because, suddenly, they didn't seem to matter anymore.
He turned toward the room, as if it were normal. As if she had never been there.