The next day there was a recording lab.
She had known for days.
She had written it in her notebook, circled it in pencil, the way you do with things you are really looking forward to.
When she walked into the room, she stopped on the threshold.
The light came in through the large side windows, clear and almost warm, drawing bright rectangles on the linoleum floor. The air smelled of light dust, wood, the plastic of cables — that specific smell of technical spaces, which resembles nothing else.
Cameras on tripods.
Microphones on adjustable stands.
Orientable studio lights.
Trestles lined up along the wall.
She looked at everything with eyes that moved slowly, like someone who wants to hold onto every detail.
It came naturally to smile.
She went to the first free bench and put her bag down without thinking, her hands already moving before she had even sat down. She touched things, adjusted them, observed them. Every object gave her a strange feeling — familiar and yet new, like recognising a language you have never spoken but have heard many times.
*This is exactly it…*
Everything came back to her. Her grandmother describing sets with her hands, saying every detail mattered, that the wrong light by ten centimetres could ruin an entire scene. She had listened to those things for years without really understanding them. Now she understood.
She picked up a microphone, raised it, tilted it slightly to the right.
She stopped.
*No… not like that.*
She adjusted it again, more vertical, shifted just slightly on its axis.
Better.
A boy beside her was struggling with a stand that refused to stay straight. She watched him for a second, then moved closer without saying anything and fixed the mechanism from underneath.
"It holds better like this."
The stand stayed firm.
The boy nodded, relieved.
A small smile escaped her — not for the help she had given, but for that feeling of knowing, of having hands that already knew what to do.
---
He was nearby.
He wasn't looking at her. He wasn't looking at anyone in particular.
He was moving chairs along the wall, arranging bundles of cables on the floor, lifting a video camera, setting it on the tripod, checking the alignment with a precise movement of his hand.
Clean movements.
No hesitation.
No asking where things should go — he put them where they belonged.
She noticed him while she was adjusting the microphone.
Not immediately — only after a few minutes, when she happened to look up and realised that everything around him was working better than before.
A cable that had been crooked was straight.
A chair out of place was aligned with the others.
A stand that had been wobbling was now stable.
He hadn't said anything. Hadn't asked anything. He had passed, adjusted, moved on.
She lowered her gaze to the microphone in her hands.
Then raised it again toward him.
*He doesn't say anything… and yet…*
She went back to work.
---
Shortly after she joined a group that was setting up a small shoot in the corner of the room. Camera, a side light, an object at the centre as a test subject.
"Can I?" she asked.
They made room for her.
She leaned toward the camera, adjusted the framing by shifting the focus slightly, then raised the light a few centimetres and tilted it five degrees to the left. Small movements. Precise. Nothing showy.
When she straightened up, the image on the preview screen was clean. More balanced. The edges defined without being harsh.
"This is better," she said.
Someone nodded. Someone else moved closer to the screen to look.
She felt something inside — not pride, more like a confirmation. Like when something you have always believed turns out to be true.
---
Passing behind her, he stopped.
Half a second. Maybe less.
He looked at the image on the preview screen without saying anything. Then he leaned down just slightly — a minimal gesture, almost imperceptible — and shifted the tripod a few millimetres to the right.
Just that.
He straightened up and walked away, as if he hadn't stopped at all.
She stayed still.
She looked at the tripod. Then the screen. Then the tripod again.
The image was different. Only slightly — but different. More centred. More breathable.
She turned toward him.
He was already on the other side of the room, back turned, adjusting something else.
As if nothing had happened.
She stayed there for a second with that strange feeling — not annoyance, not surprise. Something more neutral. The simple realisation that he saw things others didn't see, and didn't say so.
*He understands immediately…*
She lowered her gaze. Adjusted another detail on the equipment in front of her, without saying anything.
---
Time slipped by fast — too fast, the way it does when you are inside something you genuinely enjoy.
When someone announced it was time to wrap up, she stopped and looked around. The room was still full of equipment, cables, lights still on. Everything felt more real than an hour ago. More concrete. As if the space had taken on weight.
---
Outside, the courtyard was full of students.
Overlapping voices, footsteps on the paving, someone laughing loudly to one side. The air had that strange warmth of late afternoon, when the sun is already low but it isn't evening yet.
She sat with her friends at an outdoor table, still a little inside the room from before.
"So?" said one. "Did you enjoy it?"
"Yes. A lot."
The words came out quickly. She explained, described, made gestures with her hands to show how the light had been arranged, how the microphone worked, that feeling of touching things and immediately knowing how to place them.
Her friends listened, smiled, nodded.
Then, without thinking, she glanced toward the side of the courtyard where he was sitting in his usual spot — same table, same position, the same boy beside him.
The boy was talking. He was answering.
Brief. Dry. No unnecessary words.
And yet the boy kept talking to him, and didn't seem uncomfortable. If anything — he seemed almost relieved to be able to.
She watched them for a few seconds. Then went back to her friends.
---
The canteen was as full as always at that hour — overlapping voices, chairs scraping, the dull sound of trays on the counter. Normal, warm, familiar chaos.
He was in his usual spot.
Back slightly curved forward.
Tray in front of him.
The boy beside him.
"But you… do you always study like this?"
"Yes."
"Don't you get tired?"
"No."
"How do you do it?"
"I just do."
Silence.
The boy looked at him the way someone does when they are searching for something they can't find. "But… you're good at everything."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
End. No unkindness. Just his way.
On the other side of the canteen, she was with her friends. They laughed, talked, moved together with the lightness of free hours.
For a moment she looked up toward him.
One second. Maybe two.
Always the same. Always precise. Always distant.
Then she went back to her friends.
"Anyway," said one, "when we found out you lived with him… we nearly had a heart attack."
"Honestly," added another, laughing.
She smiled just slightly.
"Is he like that at home too?"
"Yes. It's like he's not even there."
"What a waste of good looks."
"He could have anyone he wanted."
She didn't answer immediately. Not because she didn't know what to say — but because that point didn't really interest her. It wasn't the point.
"How was the film?" asked one, changing tone.
Her eyes lit up.
"Really beautiful. I got emotional."
"You can tell," said one, smiling.
She lowered her gaze just slightly, then continued softly. "The director was my grandmother."
Brief silence. Her friends softened.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"We're sorry we didn't come."
"Who did you go with? By yourself?"
She hesitated half a second.
"No. With him."
Silence.
Then — "WHAT?" — "Really?" — "So it was a date?"
She looked at them, calm. Without embarrassment. Without any hidden meaning.
"No. It's nothing like that."
Then one laughed. Another changed the subject. And the conversation moved on as if nothing had happened.
She nodded, answered, participated.
But for a moment — just one — her eyes slid back toward him, on the other side of the courtyard.
Then came back.
---
That evening, the TV was on.
The room was in half-dark, lit only by the blue light of the screen projecting vivid colours on the walls. He was on the sofa — back straight but relaxed, one leg slightly extended, hands still on his knees. Completely absorbed in what he was watching.
She came out of her room, crossed the corridor, passed in front of the living room. She slowed down.
She looked at the screen. Then at him.
Something in the scene held her — not the content, but the rhythm. The images moving fast, the vivid colours. She went closer and sat beside him, not too close, not far. The distance of someone asking permission without saying so.
"What anime is it?"
"My Dress-Up Darling."
She nodded softly. Looked at the screen.
The scene changed. A simpler background — a small room, warm light. Two children. The boy was showing something he had made, hands open, face open. Happy. Sincere.
The girl was looking at him.
Then — a grimace. A light laugh. Words landing the wrong way. *Strange. Not something you do.*
The boy's smile stopped. Faded. Slow, small, but sharp. Like a light dimming without going out completely.
She stayed looking at the screen in silence.
A few minutes later, the same boy. Older. Calm on the surface. But different — in a way that took time to see.
She leaned forward just slightly toward the screen. "That scene there… it changed him."
"No." His voice was flat, immediate. "It closed him."
She turned her head slightly toward him. "Closed?"
"As a person."
She went back to the screen. She looked at the character more carefully. The eyes. The way he avoided certain glances. The tone just slightly more held back when he spoke. He hadn't changed — he had built a distance. Subtle. Functional. Invisible until you knew what to look for.
"…that's true," she said softly.
He didn't answer. They stayed there watching, in silence.
---
The following day, in the library, the book she was looking for wasn't where she remembered it.
She stopped in front of the shelf, her body tilted slightly forward, as if getting a few centimetres closer might help her find it sooner.
Her eyes moved slowly along the spines.
Titles.
Authors.
Different colours, some faded, others too new.
Her lips moved softly, without sound, repeating names as if to hold onto them better.
She stopped.
Went back a few rows.
Then forward again.
A small sigh came out through her nose, barely there.
It wasn't real frustration.
Just that light irritation of when something should be there… and isn't.
Beside her, him.
Still.
His gaze low, as if he were looking at the floor — or at nothing in particular.
He didn't intervene immediately.
Didn't ask what she was looking for.
Didn't say anything.
One second.
Maybe two.
Then he raised his arm.
Without hurrying.
His hand reached a shelf higher up, just above her eye level.
It stopped at a precise point.
He took the book.
Held it out to her.
She looked at him, surprised only halfway.
As if part of her had expected it.
"Did you know where it was?"
He made a minimal movement with his shoulders.
"I saw it before."
She lowered her gaze to the book.
She held it between her hands for a moment.
Her fingers ran along the edge of the cover, without opening it straight away.
Then she raised her eyes toward him just slightly.
"You're always alone. Doesn't it weigh on you?"
He didn't change expression.
"No."
Pause.
"Why?"
A moment.
Almost imperceptible.
"Nobody is missing."
The sentence arrived flat.
Without hesitation.
Without defences.
Not cold.
Not hard.
Just… precise.
She stayed still.
The book still in her hands.
She didn't answer immediately.
Not because she had nothing to say — but because she couldn't find anywhere to place it.
That sentence left no room.
It wasn't a closing off.
It wasn't a rejection.
It was a statement.
She lowered her gaze.
Opened the book without really reading it.
"Oh."
Nothing more.
He had already gone back to being still.
Like before.
But something — small, subtle — had stayed in the air.
And she carried it with her longer than she would have liked.
---
A few days later, they went to visit various film and TV sets.
Lights already mounted, cables laid out on the ground, half-built scenographies that let you see the structures and supports behind the scenes.
In the air, the smells of worked wood, fine dust and still-fresh paint mingled together.
She was enthusiastic.
No words were needed to understand it.
Her eyes moved constantly, passing from one detail to the next without ever really stopping.
Attentive.
Curious.
Alive.
She walked slowly between the objects, with measured, almost cautious steps, as if every surface could be fragile or important.
At the same time, her attention was drawn to everything: she would have liked to get closer, to touch, to observe every element better.
The suspended lights, the marks on the floor for the framings, the technical signs left on the ground: details that went unnoticed by others, but which she seemed to pick up on naturally.
She was happy.
He was there.
Present, but with a different attitude.
Neutral.
Observant.
He didn't linger on what might appear "beautiful."
His gaze went instead to the structure: how the set had been built, how the elements were arranged, the relationships between lights, spaces and surfaces.
He registered.
Without unnecessary comments.
Without visible reactions.
She stopped in front of a scenic backdrop leaning against a wall.
A painted landscape.
Warm, harmonised colours, with an evident attempt at realism.
She observed it for a few seconds, tilting her head just slightly.
Then she raised a hand and pointed at it.
"That painting is beautiful, isn't it?"
He looked at it.
One second.
Two.
"No."
Pause.
"It's wrong."
She turned toward him immediately.
"What?"
He made a small movement with his chin toward the painting, without moving closer.
"The light."
Another pause.
"It's not coherent."
She stayed silent for an instant.
Then, almost spontaneously, she laughed softly.
It wasn't a laugh to make fun of him.
It was genuine, light, surprised more than anything by his observation.
"You really notice everything."
He didn't answer.
His expression didn't change.
He simply went back to looking at the set, like before.
With the same rhythm, the same way of observing.
---
Later.
At the university bar, the noise was more present: cups settling on saucers, chairs sliding on the floor, voices layering over each other in light conversations.
She was sitting with her friends, leaning slightly against the small table, her glass in her hands.
Still immersed, at least in part, in what she had seen a little while before.
"It was beautiful," she was saying.
"I mean… seeing everything up close is different."
Her friends were nodding, some adding small comments.
"You can tell you love it," said one of them.
She smiled just slightly.
Then, without any real reason, her gaze slid outside the room, toward the courtyard.
He was there.
In the sports area, not far away.
Training.
Precise movements.
Repeated.
Controlled.
He wasn't looking around.
Wasn't seeking interactions.
Wasn't letting himself be distracted.
Just movement.
Breath.
Repetition.
She watched him for a few seconds, without saying anything.
Then brought her gaze back inside, toward the table.
"Oh," said a friend, with a half-smile, "you're really fixated on the set today."
She shook her head slightly.
"Yes…"
Brief pause.
"It was beautiful."
And she went back to talking with them, as if that moment had already passed.
---
Later, in the faculty corridor, someone stopped in front of the noticeboard.
A new sheet, printed in black lettering, fixed with pins at the corners.
She joined the others.
Her gaze moved silently along the lines.
Published exam dates.
Dates aligned.
She stopped on one line.
One week.
A little lower, other subjects.
Same distance.
A small murmur rose around her.
Quick comments.
Sighs.
Someone already making plans.
She stayed a second longer in front of the sheet, still, then looked away.
"This weekend I'm going home," she said almost to herself, more than to the others.
She started walking again with the group.
The thought stayed light, but present.
---
When they came out, the sky had changed.
Dense clouds had covered the sun in the space of a few minutes, and while they were still crossing the courtyard, the first drops began to fall. Quick, cold, close together.
She stopped instinctively, checking with her eyes whether she had an umbrella in her bag.
She didn't.
He passed beside her without stopping. Then he paused — half a second, like someone making a small decision without thinking too much about it. He pulled the umbrella from his bag and held it out to her.
She looked at him. "And you?"
"I'll get there anyway."
"You'll get wet."
"It doesn't change anything."
She stayed with the umbrella in her hand for a moment, looking at him. Then she opened it.
He started walking again under the rain. Shoulders straight, steady pace, his hair slowly getting wet on his forehead. Without hurrying. Without hesitation. As if the rain were just a detail of the route, not a problem.
She stayed still under the umbrella, the drops beating on the fabric with a soft, constant sound.
She watched him walk away.
In that small gesture — the umbrella given without being asked, without comment, without expecting anything in return — there was something she couldn't quite put into focus. It wasn't displayed kindness. It wasn't a calculated gesture.
It was simply him doing the obvious thing, because for him it was obvious.
Her heart beat softly, once, stronger than the others.
She watched him until he disappeared around the corner.
Only then did she lower her eyes to the wet road in front of her.
And she started walking again.