He hadn’t planned to be here.
Saturdays were usually his reset — slow mornings, long hours finishing assignments, the soft hum of music in the background. But his mother had other plans.
“Just a quick stop,” she’d said. “I need your opinion on curtain colours.”

He had protested — half-heartedly — but somehow ended up standing beside her cart in the home décor store at the far end of town, surrounded by swatches of fabric and faint traces of sandalwood air freshener.

He drifted down the aisles aimlessly while his mother compared textures, mentally counting the minutes until they could leave. The place was warm and full of chatter — weekend couples discussing colours, children darting between displays — until a familiar softness threaded through the noise.

Her voice.
Low, careful, but warm.

He turned, instinctively searching for the sound — and froze.

There she was.

Standing near the counter with a paper bag looped around her wrist, her scarf pinned neatly, her hair falling in the same tidy way it did in class — but there was something different. A lightness in her expression, a soft energy that felt so unlike the quiet, composed girl who sat two rows ahead of him every weekday.

And beside her — a woman who looked exactly like her, only older, brighter. His gaze followed naturally to the woman chatting animatedly with his own mother, who had somehow, within minutes, slipped into easy laughter.

He took a step forward, curiosity tugging at him.
And then it happened.

Her mother said something teasing — something about how she took forever to choose colours because everything had to “feel right.”
And she smiled.

Not politely. Not cautiously. But a real smile, fleeting, yet wide enough to change everything about her.

He felt the air in his chest shift.

It was the first time he had ever seen her smile like that.

It startled him — not the fact that she smiled, but how it altered her completely. Her smile instantly made her look too pretty. The reserved girl from class, the one who kept her head down and her tone clipped, looked almost unrecognisable now — brighter, freer, as if she’d stepped out from behind her own silence for just a second.

And before he could stop himself, he smiled too — quiet, involuntary, like a reflex, like if he melted into it.

He didn’t even know what the joke was. It didn’t matter.

It wasn’t about the words — it was about her.

He stood there, half-hidden behind a display of lamps, pretending to inspect a price tag, but really, he couldn’t look away.

It unsettled him — that something so simple could draw him in like this. That a smile could shift the way he saw her entirely.

Because, in that single glance, he realised how little of her he truly knew.

For her, this wasn’t how she had wanted to spend her Saturday either.

Shopping for curtains wasn’t her idea of leisure, but her mother’s excitement had been unshakeable.
“Come on, it’ll be quick,” she’d said, smiling, and as always, she followed. She carried the lighter bags, nodded when asked for opinions, and stayed quietly in the background — the same way she did everywhere else.

But the store had surprised her — rows of warm light spilling over patterned fabrics, soft instrumental music playing overhead. And her mother, as always, had found conversation before she could even finish a full breath.

The woman behind the counter was kind and calm, her voice familiar in a way that made comfort easy.

“Oh, this design is lovely,” her mother said, holding up a bolt of fabric.
“It’s one of the bestsellers,” the woman replied with a knowing smile. “I always say — good taste never fades.”

Something flickered in her eyes, and she tilted her head slightly.
“Wait,” the woman said suddenly, her gaze sharpening. “Lyra?”

Her mother blinked, startled. Then her face broke into pure recognition.
“Selene?”

They both laughed at once — a burst of shared history cutting through years apart.

“I can’t believe this!” Lyra exclaimed, shaking her head. “You haven’t changed at all.”
“Neither have you,” Selene replied warmly. “It’s been, what, fifteen years? We practically lived in the library back then.”

“And spent half of it panicking before exams,” Lyra added, smiling. “Oh, it feels like another lifetime.”

“Then let’s not lose touch again,” Selene said, already reaching for her phone. “Give me your number. We need a proper catch-up.”

“Absolutely.” Lyra passed her phone over, laughing softly as she added, “Looks like fate’s finally doing its job.”

They both smiled, the kind of smile that came from recognising an old friend not with surprise, but with warmth.

Meanwhile, she stood quietly beside her mother, trying to process who the other woman was — a university friend, apparently. Their laughter filled the space, and somehow, she felt lighter just hearing it.

When her mother turned toward her, she added, “This is my daughter — Elara.”

Selene’s smile widened. “She’s lovely,” she said. “She looks just like you.”

Her mother chuckled, teasing gently, “Except she’s far pickier than I ever was. Can’t decide on colours to save her life.”

Heat rose to her cheeks, and before she could stop herself, she smiled — small, shy, but genuine.

She hadn’t realised anyone was watching.

He had been.

From behind the aisle, half-hidden by a row of cushions, he caught the moment her smile appeared. And something within him paused — not in surprise, but in recognition.

Because he’d seen her in so many moments of silence — in lectures, in corridors, in study halls — but never like this. Never open. Never unguarded.

When his mother finally waved him over, he hesitated before stepping out. She turned then, her gaze flicking to him, and for the briefest instant, their eyes met.

There was a flash of realisation in hers — a quiet you saw me — before she quickly looked away, the soft lines of her face tightening back into calm composure.

Introductions followed easily after that.
Names exchanged, polite nods, small talk about routines. He stood beside his mother, listening, speaking only when spoken to. But inside, something small and quiet had shifted.

Because now he knew.

She wasn’t just the composed, distant classmate who spoke only when needed.
She wasn’t just the neat handwriting and the measured tone.

She was the girl who smiled softly when her mother teased her.
Who laughed quietly between aisles of curtains and light.
Who had an entire side of her he’d never seen — until now.

And as their mothers chatted about meeting again, he realised something strange — the thought of it didn’t make him uncomfortable at all.

If anything, he wanted to see that smile again.