The brief interlude of empty days didn't last. A few days after the results were posted, a fresh notification pinged in the official college group chat: the administrative department had announced the exact date for the commencement of the new semester classes.
With the deadline set, the loose, unstructured freedom of the holiday evaporated. Knowing how relentless the upcoming workload would be and how little free time I would have after that. I threw myself back into my books with a fierce, quiet intensity. I studied harder and more seriously than before, squeezing every productive hour out of the remaining days to get ahead of the syllabus.
When the morning of the new term finally arrived, I stepped out the door and made my way back to campus.
Walking through the familiar gates, it felt as though nothing had really changed. The campus buzzed with the same old energy, filled with the usual chatter and the familiar faces of classmates rushing to their respective buildings. Luca was there, too, drifting through the hallways like before.
Over the first few days back, we exchanged a few words whenever we had some free time.
The campus gates remained closed for the holidays, but the digital space between us buzzed with life. Since we weren't meeting in person, our communication shifted entirely to private messages and phone calls, a safe, virtual distance that allowed me to stay wrapped in my own solitude while still letting a tiny sliver of the outside world in.
Because of Luca's active role in the student council, he seemed to know everything happening on campus. He was plugged into every undercurrent, aware of every shift between the professors and the student body long before official notices were ever posted.
During our calls or late-night chats, he would update me on the minutiae of college life rumors floating through the department, administrative updates, and minor campus dramas that I usually couldn't care less about. I was never one to care about other people's business, and most days, the lives of my peers felt entirely detached from my own reality. But Luca had a dry, effortless way of telling stories. Every now and then, he would recount something so utterly bizarre or hilarious that it would catch me off guard, forcing a rare, genuine laugh out of me in the dark of my room.
Our conversations were easy, uncomplicated, and strictly mediated through screens. He talked, I listened and sometimes offered quiet, amused replies and for a brief moment, the suffocating loneliness of my room felt a little less heavy.
Yet, when the phone call ended and the screen went dark, the silence rushed back in. The digital chatter faded, leaving me alone with my thoughts, my ticking clock, and the unpredictable nights where sleep remained as elusive as ever.
When the campus gates finally reopened and the new term officially began, the lecture halls settled into their familiar rhythms. During the first week back, the professors stood before the packed amphitheaters to outline the semester's schedule, distribute syllabus, and publicly congratulate the top-ranking students who had excelled in the recent exams.
Applause rippled through the rows, and bright, eager faces basked in the approval of the faculty. But I sat quietly in the middle rows, keeping my head down, feeling a profound, steady wave of satisfaction. My scores were good, better than average, especially given the heavy fog of my mental state, the physical agony in my spine, and the relentless battles I fought alone every single night. I was quietly proud of myself. I had carried the weight of the world on my shoulders and still managed to hold my ground.
Yet, I preferred the shadows.The aversion to being seen ran deep, rooted in the agonizing memories of my school days. I had lived through this before; back in school, I had consistently stood at the top of my class, and that academic excellence had made me the permanent target of teachers' praise and unwanted attention.
There was also another incident, when our teachers discovered that I could sing well, whenever school festivals, annual functions, or cultural programs rolled around, they would urge and request me to perform on stage. But for someone paralyzed by severe social anxiety, standing before a massive crowd of staring faces was a waking nightmare. Handling the collective weight of hundreds of eyes fixed on me felt suffocating, and though I sometimes tried my best to comply, those moments often ended in silent panic and failure.
If anyone looked my way, I quickly shrank back. Being thrust into the spotlight, forced to bear the weight of expectations and prying eyes, had been a special kind of torture. I hated it then, and I feared it even more now.
That lingering dread was a primary reason why no one in college had the slightest idea that I could sing. I kept that talent locked away, hidden behind a deliberate wall of ordinary silence.
Combined with my introversion, that fierce desire to remain unnoticed meant keeping my head down was a matter of survival. I never once considered going to the professors to explain my situation, unlike some students who readily broke down in faculty offices or our classes , crying over depression, family struggles, or academic pressures.
Opening up would mean exposing my rawest wounds, inviting pity, and stepping directly back under the blinding glare of a stage. I wanted none of it.
Even when casual acquaintances or newer friends asked how things were going, or what I liked to do, the script was always the same. Nobody around me truly knew who I was, what I was capable of, or what shadowed my past and that profound anonymity was the greatest comfort I could ask for.
Even when they asked about home, I would offer a polite, rehearsed smile and say, "Everything is fine. My family is doing well."
It was a practiced lie, but it kept the world at a safe distance. For two full years, I had survived by wrapping myself in silence, keeping my family's fragility, my mother's absence, and my crumbling back a secret from everyone around me.
As I sat there listening to the professor move on to the next lecture topic, a quiet realization settled over me. There were only two semesters left, just one final year standing between me and the end of this chapter. If I could just keep quiet, stay invisible, and carry the load by myself a little longer, I would make it through.