---

Thursday morning arrived with overcast skies - the kind that made you want to stay curled up in bed, away from people, away from reality.

But Anvi showed up to school as usual - on time, hair braided neatly, bag hanging lightly off one shoulder. On the outside, she looked the same.

Inside, however... she was exhausted.

Not from school.

Not from assignments.

But from feeling too much, and saying too little.

---

Their interactions had returned to that practiced professionalism again.

"Check the angle on that lens."

"Sir, done."

"Laser output intensity?"

"Measured and stable."

Cold. Clean. Clinical.

No weight behind the words.

And yet, every glance that escaped the wall of silence between them made her stomach twist.

He wasn't unkind. He wasn't distant in the usual sense. But he had mastered the art of staying just far enough.

Close enough to notice.

Far enough to forget.

Or at least, pretend to.

---

The science exhibition's aftermath had left the school buzzing - appreciation letters, photos in the corridor, reports for the school website. Everything had gone perfectly.

Everyone was proud.

Except her.

Because her mind didn't store achievements.

It stored moments.

And the one moment she had waited for - him standing beside her, even for a second, not as a teacher but as someone who saw her - never came.

That moment never arrived.

Or maybe it did.

In another version of this world.

The kind that only lives in "ifs".

---

It was during the lunch break that Thursday when Anvi found herself sitting alone under the old banyan tree near the sports field.

She needed air.

The classroom was stifling. The corridors too loud. The physics lab - unbearable.

She took out her diary again. The leather-bound one with soft pages that had seen too much ink and not enough healing.

She wrote:

> "The cruelest thing about distance is

not how far two people are...

but how close they used to be."

She didn't cry.

Tears had started to feel unnecessary now.

What she felt was quieter.

Like grief that didn't need explanation.

---

Inside the staffroom, Aarav was looking over practical exam files. His pen scratched across the pages, correcting, noting, approving.

But a part of him - the part he thought he had neatly locked away - kept drifting.

Back to her voice.

Her silence.

The way she had said - "Sir, ab kuch kehne ki zarurat nahi. Maine sab sun liya tha... us din."

He wondered if she knew how hard it had been for him to stand still and not go after her that day.

To not ruin what little balance remained between them.

He wasn't a coward. He was just careful.

Too careful.

---

Later that day, a notice was pinned up on the board: "Internal Viva Week - Begins Monday"

Students groaned. Teachers prepared their question sets.

Anvi, however, read the notice and immediately felt her chest tighten.

Because physics viva meant face-to-face questioning.

And that meant him.

She would have to sit across from him, answer his questions, maintain eye contact - like nothing was wrong.

Like her heart wasn't balancing equations more complicated than wave interference.

---

Monday arrived.

The classroom had been converted into a temporary viva setup. One side had the teacher's desk, files, rubrics. The other had a single chair - for the student.

The roll numbers were being called in order.

Anvi's was 18.

She sat at the back, flipping through her notes, though she wasn't really reading them. Her eyes kept darting to the closed door of the classroom, behind which viva sessions were happening.

Ten minutes later, a student came out, nervous but smiling.

"Easy questions," she whispered to Anvi. "Sir's being very chill."

Anvi nodded, heart thumping.

Finally, the peon called, "Roll number 18."

She stood up.

Walked down the corridor.

Paused outside the door.

Breathed in once - then entered.

---

He looked up the moment she stepped in.

And for a second - he froze.

Then his face composed itself.

"Roll number?" he asked.

She sat. "Eighteen. Anvi Verma."

He marked something on the sheet.

Then looked up at her.

Their eyes locked - and just like that, the silence between them stretched.

Not awkward.

Just... heavy.

Like air before a thunderstorm.

"Okay," he said finally. "Let's begin."

---

The questions were standard.

Refraction laws. Huygens Principle. Double slit experiment.

She answered each one with calm precision.

And he? He listened quietly, asked follow-ups, gave no expression.

It was the last question that broke something small.

"Anvi," he said, slowly. "Define resonance. And give an example."

She hesitated.

Then replied, "Resonance happens when the frequency of an external force matches the natural frequency of a system... causing maximum amplitude."

"And your example?"

She met his gaze.

And softly replied - "Sometimes... when two people carry the same silence in their hearts... even that becomes resonance."

His pen paused midair.

And for the first time in weeks...

He smiled.

Just barely.

---

Author's POV

Some stories don't progress through plot twists or declarations.

They grow through moments like these - a smile held back for too long, a word that means more than the textbook definition, a glance that dares to last half a second longer than it should.

Anvi didn't just answer his question.

She answered him.

And Aarav - in that second of silence - felt the ground shift beneath his carefully constructed lines.

It was just a viva.

But for them, it was the first conversation where truth wore no masks.

And even though neither of them said what their hearts screamed...

They heard each other.

Louder than ever.

---

To be continued