She woke up with the light already high outside the window.
For a few seconds she stayed still, eyes still closed, not thinking about anything in particular. Then she slowly turned onto her side and stared at the ceiling. The silence of the room was stable, almost familiar. There was no urgency. There was nothing that had to happen right away.
Only one thing came back to her, simply and directly.
Exams.
She sat up on the bed and ran a hand over her face. It wasn't real anxiety. More a constant awareness, like a thought that stays in the background even when you try to ignore it.
She got up.
The apartment was already awake, but not noisy. That kind of morning when everything works without drawing attention.
In the kitchen she made herself something to eat without thinking too much about it. Slow, habitual movements. Bread, something to drink, the phone resting on the table that lit up every now and then without her really looking at it.
She sat down.
And started studying.
The first hours passed without weight.
The pages in front of her were full, but ordered. Highlighters, notes in the margins, diagrams layered over concepts she had already read a thousand times.
Every now and then she stopped, ran a hand through her hair and reread the same sentence two or three times, not because she didn't understand it, but to fix it better.
From the next room came some light sounds.
The television on at low volume.
A glass set down on the table.
Footsteps.
He was there.
She couldn't see him, but she knew.
And it didn't seem important to her.
Not yet.
Later she moved to the university.
The corridor was full, but not too much. That controlled chaos of normal days, where everyone seems to have a destination but no one really stops.
In the library she sat with her friends.
"I can't study this much anymore," said one, leaning back against her chair.
"Not much left," replied another, flipping through her notes.
She smiled slightly, without joining in right away.
Then she opened her notebook.
Studying together made everything lighter, even when they weren't really talking.
Every now and then a comment, a pause, a brief laugh that didn't break the silence but made it less heavy.
She wrote, listened, then went back to writing.
In those moments she was completely inside what she was doing.
Or at least she tried.
When they left the library, the sun was already lower.
They stopped at the university bar.
Coffee, chat, chairs scraping on the floor.
"After this I'm not opening anything until the exams," said one of her friends.
"Sure you're not," another answered immediately, laughing.
She was smiling, but her gaze kept drifting outside for no real reason.
She wasn't looking for him.
It just happened.
Later, as they were heading back, she noticed him.
He was standing near the exit of the building.
With the boy she often saw with him.
They were talking.
Or rather: the other one was talking, he wasn't.
Then he stopped.
One precise moment.
As always.
And turned.
Left.
She said nothing.
Not right away.
She kept walking with her friends, nodding at something she hadn't really listened to.
Only after a few seconds did she speak, almost absently:
"What time is it?"
"Uh, 6pm."
"Always the same time!"
"What?"
"Nothing… forget it."
And she smiled.
But her gaze had stayed behind.
That evening she studied again.
More slowly.
Less focused.
Not because she didn't want to, but because every now and then she stopped without noticing.
The pen stayed suspended above the page.
Eyes fixed on a line she wasn't really reading.
Then she'd start again.
When she finished, it was late.
The apartment was silent.
She got up, closed the notebook and stayed still for a moment in front of the desk.
As if she had to remember something.
Then she shook her head slightly.
On the couch he was there.
Television on.
Cold light on his face.
Same position as always.
He didn't look at her right away.
He did nothing to draw attention.
He was simply present.
She walked past, then stopped.
"Tomorrow are the exams." she said.
"I know."
The answer came immediately.
No emphasis.
No weight.
She nodded.
Stayed a second longer than necessary.
Then turned toward her room.
Before closing the door, she stopped.
From the corridor still came the low sound of the television.
And for the first time it didn't just seem like noise.
She stood there a few seconds.
Then went in.
And that night, before sleeping, the thought arrived without forcing it.
Not whole.
Just a feeling.
Always at the same time.
Evening had fallen for a while, but she only noticed when the light outside the window had turned darker, almost uniform.
The room was silent.
Only the desk lamp stayed on, with that warm glow that isolated everything else. The bed behind her had been unmade for hours, but ignored.
She was still there.
On the books.
The pages were full of marks, underlines, notes written in haste in the margins. Some concepts she had repeated so many times she wasn't really reading them anymore: she just recognized them.
Every now and then she stopped.
Stayed still for a few seconds.
Then started again.
But at a certain point the pen stopped.
It stayed suspended above the notebook.
Silence.
She stared at the same line for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Then exhaled slowly through her nose.
And closed the notebook.
The gesture made a small dry sound in the room.
Done.
For a moment she stayed still, hands still resting on the closed cover, as if she needed to make sure she had really finished.
Then she leaned back against the chair.
Stretched slowly.
Her shoulders dropped, her arms extended forward, then upward.
A simple movement, almost automatic, after hours in the same position.
When she relaxed again, she let out a small breath.
She looked at the desk.
The closed books.
The pens.
The scattered notes.
All there.
All done.
For a few seconds she said nothing, neither aloud nor in her head.
Then she got up.
Took two steps around the room, without any real direction, just to work out the stiffness in her legs.
She stopped by the window.
Outside it was all dark, but not completely empty: a few distant lights, the faint reflection of a city that never fully slept.
She stayed there a moment.
Still.
Then nodded slightly to herself.
As if she had confirmed something that had already been decided before.
"All right…"
A brief pause.
"I'm ready."
Her voice was low.
Not an announcement.
Just a statement.
She went back to the desk, turned off the lamp.
The room stayed dark for a second, before her eyes adjusted.
Then she moved toward the bed.
Lay down.
Arms along her sides.
The ceiling above her still, the same as always.
For a few seconds she stayed awake, with no precise thoughts.
Just a calm, stable feeling.
Then she closed her eyes.
The morning of the exams arrived without seeming different from any other.
And yet it was.
She noticed as soon as she woke up, in the way the air felt stiller than usual. As if the apartment had turned down its volume.
She got up more slowly.
Got dressed without hurry, but with more precise movements than usual. Everything seemed to have an already established order, as if there was no room for improvising.
In the kitchen she ate little.
Not because she wasn't hungry, but because her body already seemed focused elsewhere.
When she left, the sky was clear but not completely bright.
The university was different.
No more light chatter in the corridors, but stiller groups, low voices, last-minute revision, sheets held tight in hands.
Someone laughing nervously.
Someone checking the clock every two minutes.
She walked among them without stopping too long.
In the exam hall the silence was different from the library's.
Heavier.
Fuller.
Chairs spaced apart, papers already ready on the desks, pens set down with almost excessive care.
She sat down.
Put her bag on the floor.
Then her hands on the desk.
A moment.
She breathed.
When the test began, everything else ceased to exist.
There were no sounds, no people.
Only questions.
And answers.
Slow at first, then more fluent.
Every now and then she stopped, reread a sentence, moved her gaze from one point of the page to another as if looking for confirmation.
But her mind stayed stable.
Focused.
Time passed without being really perceived.
Only occasionally did external signals arrive: the sound of a chair, a pen dropping, a cough poorly suppressed.
Then silence again.
When they told her she could hand in, it took her a few seconds to realize it.
Not from insecurity.
Because her body was still inside the rhythm of the test.
Then she raised her hand.
Handed it in.
Outside the hall, the air seemed different.
Lighter.
Someone already smiling, someone talking loudly, someone letting themselves fall against the wall as if the weight had suddenly disappeared.
"How did it go?"
"Well… I think."
"Terribly for me."
Nervous laughter.
She didn't speak right away.
She just walked with them toward the exit.
Then she took out her phone.
18:09.
She stared at it for a second.
Said nothing.
Put it away.
And in that moment she saw him.
On the other side of the courtyard.
Same spot.
Same posture as always.
He was leaving.
She slowed slightly.
Not enough to stop.
Just enough to notice him better.
Her friends called her back.
"Come on, let's go get something to drink!"
She smiled.
"Yes, coming."
And moved with them.
But for the first time, as she talked and laughed in bursts, a part of her stayed slightly behind.
Not on the exams.
Not on her friends.
But on that gesture.
Something that repeated.
Without ever changing.
The exam tension dissolved quickly.
Already by the afternoon, the air had changed.
"Karaoke tonight," said one of her friends, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
She thought about it for a moment.
Then nodded.
"All right."
That evening the place was full of low lights and overlapping voices.
The noise was continuous, but not heavy.
Just alive.
Microphones that squealed every now and then, laughter out of time, people singing without really caring about being good.
She didn't sing right away.
She sat there, glass in hand, watching the others.
She laughed when they laughed.
Let herself be carried along.
For once without thinking about anything in particular.
"Come on, your turn!" they called at some point.
She shook her head laughing.
"No, no, I'll pass."
And stayed where she was.
For a few hours it was like that.
Light.
Normal.
The following day she did nothing important.
She slept more than usual.
Got up late.
The apartment was quiet.
She lay on the couch with a light blanket.
Watched a film without focusing too much on the plot.
Every now and then she picked up her phone.
Every now and then she ate something from the table.
Popcorn, then water.
There was no urgency.
Just pause.
The day after that, the classroom was full.
Literature lecture.
The professor had been talking for a while, voice steady, monotonous at times, but followed attentively by some students.
He was sitting as always.
Same position.
Same calm.
Gaze fixed, attentive, no distractions.
He took notes only when needed.
No more.
At some point the professor asked a question.
Silence.
Someone looked down at their papers.
Someone else pretended to write.
He answered.
Without raising his hand.
One sentence only.
Precise.
The professor nodded slowly.
As if it were the only possible answer, even if he hadn't expected it that quickly.
A girl two rows ahead turned slightly toward him.
Watched him a second too long.
Then went back to her notebook.
In the afternoon the lecture resumed in the same classroom.
Same layout.
Same low noise of pens and pages.
She was writing when she noticed him.
Not right away.
Only when she looked up between one line and the next.
He was in his usual spot.
But something was different.
The phone vibrated.
Once.
Then again.
He looked at it.
Said nothing.
For a few seconds he stayed still.
The screen barely lit his face.
Neutral.
Then he got up.
Without hurry.
Without explaining.
Bag on his shoulder.
The chair made a small sound.
And he left the classroom.
No one said anything.
The lecture continued.
But she followed him with her eyes.
A little longer than usual.
She didn't know why.
It wasn't important.
Or at least… not yet.
When the door closed, she stayed still.
Then went back to her notebook.
But she wasn't really writing anymore.
The evening was quiet.
The apartment had that normal silence, made of distant sounds and low light coming from the TV.
She was on the couch, legs crossed beneath her, a light blanket over her.
She was finishing a film without really focusing on the last few minutes.
More than following the story, she was letting it run.
The sound of the front door made her look up just slightly.
Click.
Steps in the corridor.
He came in.
As always.
Without hurry.
Without saying anything.
Bag on his shoulder, regular pace, the usual silent presence that moved through the apartment without changing its rhythm.
She followed him with her eyes for a moment.
Not long.
Just enough to register him.
He didn't look at her.
He passed in front of the living room and disappeared into the corridor.
The door of his room closed shortly after.
Silence.
Again.
She went back to looking at the screen.
The film was ending.
But she wasn't really following it anymore.
She stayed still for a few seconds.
Then lowered the volume slightly.
"…tomorrow…"
She said it quietly.
Almost without voice.
Pause.
Then, clearer in her head than in the air:
"I've decided."
One second.
Silence.
"Tomorrow I'll follow him."