The third morning came wrapped in fog.
Not outside â but inside him.
A thick, shapeless, colorless kind of fog.
The kind that doesn't block your eyes⦠but clouds your soul.
He sat on the edge of his bed for a long time, staring at nothing.
His socks in one hand, uniform wrinkled on his lap.
He couldnât remember when he had stopped caring about neat collars and polished shoes.
Time had lost its rhythm.
Days were blending into each other â like pages from a book with smudged ink.
And sheâ¦
She still hadnât come.
No footsteps echoing through the corridor.
No awkward greetings.
No ridiculous metaphors about clouds being sleepy or feathers being feelings.
Just nothing.
Again.
When he reached class, her seat was still empty.
The desk untouched. No notes. No paper cranes.
Just a silence that now felt personal.
He kept his eyes low all day.
Not because he was tired â though he was.
But because the light felt too harsh.
Like the sun was mocking him for still hoping.
And the worst part?
No one asked about her.
Not the teachers.
Not the students.
Not anyone.
It was like she never mattered.
Like her voice had been erased from memory the second it stopped echoing in the halls.
He wanted to scream,
âWhere is she?â
But his throat wouldnât open.
It had forgotten how to ask.
So instead, he just stared at her empty desk.
Every. Single. Period.
And with each glance, a voice inside him whispered something darker.
> âSheâs not coming back.â
> âYou were just a passing moment.â
> âYou imagined all of it. The notes. The laughter. The way she looked at you.â
>
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> âShe was never here to stay.â
It hurt.
And he hated that it hurt this much.
Because she was just a girl.
Just a stranger who sat next to him.
Just someone who told silly jokes and dropped candy bars on his desk like they were life-saving pills.
Right?
But somehow⦠she had become the only sound in his silent world.
The only color in his greyscale sky.
And now that she was gone, everything felt louder.
The ticking of the clock.
The scratch of pens on paper.
The buzz of laughter that never reached his corner.
He looked around the room.
Everyone else had moved on.
As if her absence wasnât even a pause in their day.
And that made him feel lonelier than ever.
Not just alone.
But unseen.
Unfelt.
It was like she had entered his world just to prove he existedâ¦
And now, without her, he wasnât so sure anymore.
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After school, he didnât go straight to the hostel.
He wandered.
His feet took him somewhere random â a small park, the one near the back gate.
Almost empty.
Just a couple of kids swinging lazily and a stray dog sleeping by a bench.
He sat down and pulled out his notebook.
Not to study. Not to sketch.
Just to⦠bleed a little on paper.
He flipped past old drawings â clouds, birds, eyes, half-written thoughts.
Then stopped at the sketch of her.
The one heâd drawn yesterday.
She was still smiling in the picture.
Still floating in the sky like she didnât know how to fall.
He stared at it.
And for the first time, he felt something new rise in his chest.
Not hope.
Not even sadness.
But anger.
Not loud anger. Not screaming.
Just quiet, bitter fire that burned under his ribs.
> âWhy did you come if you were going to leave?â
> âWhy did you make me feel noticed, just to disappear?â
> âWas this all just pity?â
He wanted to rip the page out.
Crumple it. Tear it. Burn it.
But he didnât.
Because deep down, he knew it wasnât her fault.
He didnât know whose fault it was. Maybe fate. Maybe life. Maybe whatever cruel thing put broken people in each otherâs paths and then tore them away too soon.
He sighed.
Closed the book.
Looked up at the sky.
It was dull today.
No clouds to race. No birds to follow.
Just a plain, pale sky.
Like a sheet of paper waiting to be drawn on â but no one had the energy.
Thatâs how he felt too.
Blank. Heavy. Unwritten.
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That night, in bed, he didnât even try to sleep.
He just lay there, hands under his head, eyes wide open, listening to the fan buzz like it was reciting a poem in a language heâd forgotten.
He kept thinking about her last words:
> âTell me what your favorite sky looks like.â
He never answered.
He didnât even know.
But now, maybe he did.
Maybe his favorite sky was the one that made him feel less alone.
The one where someoneâs voice floated beside him.
The one that held laughter, questions, and paper notes signed with no names.
Maybe she was the sky.
And now, she was gone.
And the silence wasnât just silence anymore.
It was loss.
It was grief for something he never had the courage to hold on to.
Something that felt real, even if it came in the form of loud jokes and quiet gestures.
He closed his eyes and whispered to the dark:
> âIf this was all just a dreamâ¦
> â¦then let me stay asleep a little longer.â