Andini didn't notice the change through any grand event, but rather through the sudden absence of the familiar. It wasn't that the physical distance between them had shrunk; it was that the quality of that distance had altered.
The air between them, once stagnant and heavy, now seemed to vibrate with a low, expectant hum.
In the theater of Hall 3B, she reclaimed her seat in the back row. She went through the motions—opening her book, tracing a line of text, and closing it again. It was a vestigial habit, a skin she hadn't quite molted yet.
But now, her gaze possessed a new, restless trajectory. It flickered toward the front-left corner, toward the silhouette that was no longer an abstraction, but a person named Fani.
The name had fallen from the professor's lips during roll call, discarded like an overlooked coin. But Andini had caught it. She hoarded the two syllables in the private vault of her mind, repeating them silently, tasting them with a careful reverence, as if speaking them aloud might shatter the fragile equilibrium they had found.
The day proceeded with a strange, sterile peace. There were no jagged outbursts of laughter, no whispers sharp enough to draw blood.
Ironically, this tranquility made Andini pulse with a new kind of vertigo. She knew that the world rarely mended itself so cleanly. More often, people simply became more adept at camouflaging their cruelty.
When the lecture dissolved, Andini remained anchored to her seat. She performed a pantomime of organization, shuffling papers and tucking pens away, her eyes tracing Fani's movements in the periphery. She watched as Fani gathered her life onto her lap with the practiced, agonizing precision of someone who knew that a single dropped item was a vulnerability.
No one offered a hand; no one offered a slight.
Andini waited until Fani began her exit before she stood. She didn't walk beside her. She maintained a deliberate, calculated lag—a celestial body in a synchronised but separate orbit. She was terrified of looking like she was hovering, yet she found herself incapable of truly turning away.
In the corridor, Fani paused to recalibrate her chair. Andini halted instantly, her thumbs scrolling aimlessly through her phone, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
She interrogated her own reflection in the darkened screen: What are you waiting for?
Over the following days, this quiet choreography became their new language. It was never discussed, yet it was deeply felt.
Andini began to migrate. She moved one row forward. Then another. She wasn't at Fani's side, but she was close enough to hear the rhythmic, metallic sigh of the wheelchair's tires.
Occasionally, their eyes would collide—a brief, electric spark of recognition. They were two explorers who had stumbled upon a new territory, both wary of naming it, lest the name change the landscape.
***
One afternoon, the professor was delayed, leaving the room to simmer in a broth of idle chatter. Andini's focus was fractured by a sharp plastic clatter: a water bottle had escaped Fani's grip, rolling to a stop just out of reach.
Fani strained toward it, her fingers brushing the plastic before it skittered further away. Her jaw tightened as she tried again, her frustration a tangible, radiating heat.
Andini's body outran her hesitation. She was there before she could formulate a reason to stay still. She retrieved the bottle, twisted the cap loose in one fluid, silent motion, and held it out.
There was no grand effusion of gratitude. No cinematic smile. Just a small, solemn nod from Fani. For Andini, it was more than enough. It was an entire conversation.
She returned to her desk, a strange, unidentifiable warmth blooming in her chest. It wasn't pride, nor was it simple relief. It was the sudden, sharp realization that she wasn't merely assisting a stranger; she was painstakingly gathering the jagged shards of her own reflection, pieces she had allowed to lay scattered on the cold, institutional tiles for far too long.
***
That evening, as they filtered out of the hall at the same tempo, Andini found herself walking parallel to the wheelchair for the first time.
The proximity felt monumental.
"You... you prefer the back, don't you?" Fani's voice was a soft vibration, barely rising above the ambient noise of the hallway.
Andini nodded, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. "It's easier to see the whole picture from there."
Fani offered a ghost of a smile, weary but genuine.
"I'm in the front... because the world doesn't really leave room for me anywhere else."
It wasn't a confession of bitterness. It was a clinical observation of her own geography.
They lapsed back into silence, but the air between them no longer felt like a barrier. It felt like a bridge.
At the building's exit, their paths diverged—Fani toward the asphalt of the parking lot, Andini toward the hushed sanctuary of the library. There were no promises made, no exchange of digital tethers.
Andini watched her go, realizing that the rigid distance that had defined her life had finally, irrevocably shifted. It wasn't that they were close, not yet.
But the gap between them was no longer a void—it was an invitation.