The farewell was still two weeks away. That should have been plenty of time to process things, to build up a shred of confidence, or at least to rationalize a plan.

Unfortunately, my brain completely disagreed.

The moment the date was officially projected onto the notice board, it settled into the back of my mind and flatly refused to leave. No matter what I was doing, the thought inevitably returned. It drifted into the margins of my final lab assignments, loomed over our late-night project reviews, and hung in the air during our regular lectures. Even when I tried to lose myself in a video game, a small, persistent voice kept looping in the background.

The farewell is coming. And after that? There simply weren’t many ordinary college days left.

The strange thing was that under normal circumstances, I didn’t even like farewell parties. Neither did Jason, and neither did Sam. Our shared aversion to crowded social functions should have made the decision entirely easy.

It didn’t.

A week before the event, the inevitable argument started while we were sitting at our usual tea stall outside the gates.

“We don’t need to go,” Jason said, his tone sounding entirely certain as he reviewed a dataset on his phone. “It’s going to be poorly managed, loud, and a total waste of an evening when we could be preparing for our final project submissions.”

“Agreed,” Sam replied, slouching against the wooden bench. “It’s just an excuse for people to cry over a campus they spent four years trying to skip.”

I simply nodded, taking a sip of my tea. “Exactly. Sounds exhausting.”

The discussion ended right there. Or, at least, it should have. Instead, it restarted the next afternoon. And the day after that. Every single time another student mentioned the preparations in the corridor, the three of us somehow found ourselves analyzing the invitation all over again.

The real problem wasn’t whether we actually wanted to go. The problem was that everybody else was going.

The entire senior batch was deeply invested in the event. People were constantly discussing tailored outfits, making dinner arrangements, coordinating group photographs, and frantically trying to build memories before the year slipped away. Even the reclusive students who had never attended a single college festival seemed genuinely interested. The whole class was slowly, inevitably getting pulled toward it.

One afternoon, while walking through the gravel parking area toward our bikes, Sam let out a dramatic, heavy sigh.

“I think we should just go,” Sam muttered, staring down at his keys.

Jason stopped dead in his tracks, looking at him with a flat expression. “You spent the last five days explaining why we shouldn’t.”

“I changed my mind, Jase.”

“Why?”

“Because if I don’t go,” Sam said, his voice dropping its usual teasing edge, “I’ll probably sit in my room that night and regret it for the next ten years. It’s the last time the whole batch will be in one room.”

Jason paused, his analytical defenses dropping for a fraction of a second. He looked over at me. I quickly looked away, staring intensely at a nearby tree, because Sam had just spoken my exact, hidden reason out loud.

A few quiet seconds passed. Then, Jason let out a long, slow sigh—the specific kind of sigh that always signaled his ultimate defeat.

“Fine,” Jason muttered, turning back toward his bike.

Sam grinned instantly. I tried hard not to, but the relief in my chest was undeniable. The decision was officially made.

The following week vanished with an unsettling speed. The closer the designated evening came, the faster the calendar pages seemed to turn. Then, suddenly, the day arrived.

The morning felt entirely different from any other college day. It wasn’t that the air was magically important; it just felt strange. Like the absolute last page of a long chapter. Even before I left my house, the shift was obvious. People were already uploading old campus photographs, spamming the group chats, and making frantic, last-minute adjustments to their schedules. The entire atmosphere felt remarkably light, as if the entire department had collectively agreed to delete all assignments and deadlines from their minds for a single day.

When I arrived back home after our brief morning lab check, I spent far more time standing in front of my wardrobe getting ready than I was ever willing to admit to the guys. It wasn’t because I suddenly cared about fashion—I didn’t. But I told myself that if I was forcing myself to go to a formal event, I might as well look presentable. That was the safe, logical excuse I used.

I wasn’t entirely sure I believed it myself.

By early evening, the engineering campus looked completely unrecognizable.

Strands of warm fairy lights draped across the concrete pathways, banners hung from the balconies, and a low bass from the sound system vibrated through the courtyard. Students were everywhere, dressed in formal attire, walking in pairs and groups. For the first time since we had stepped through these gates, college didn’t feel like college. It felt like a temporary set built for a single night—something beautiful that would completely vanish by morning.

Jason looked visibly uncomfortable the second we stepped past the security checkpoint, adjusting his collar with a frown. Sam, on the other hand, looked entirely excited, scanning the crowd with a grin.

“This place is far too crowded,” Jason muttered, his voice tense as a group of juniors hurried past us.

Sam laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re acting like we’re crossing a literal battlefield, Jase.”

“Given the density of the crowd, we practically are.”

The formal function began shortly after. There were standard student speeches, lighthearted department awards, inside jokes projected onto a massive screen, and shared memories narrated by the professors. Everything happened exactly the way farewell events always do. Students laughed loudly, faculty shared moving stories about our journey, and people took hundreds of frantic photos on their phones—most of which would probably sit in a digital storage drive, never to be looked at again.

Yet, looking around the dark hall, I noticed how everyone treated the fleeting moment like it was the only thing that mattered. Maybe because, right now, it actually did.

I tried my absolute best to pay attention to the stage. I really did. Unfortunately, my internal focus kept drifting away from the podium, pulled toward the exact same section of the hall. Again and again.

When my eyes first found Ava that evening, my thoughts ran into a complete dead end.

She was standing near the center aisle, completely removed from the dull classroom setting I was used to. She was wearing a stunning, elegant dress in a rich, deep wine color—a striking shade of dark velvet crimson that made her stand out effortlessly against the pale lighting of the hall. Her hair was styled neatly, and she was listening intently to a professor’s speech, that same natural, unbothered confidence radiating from her.

For one long, unprotected moment, all I could do was stare from the shadows of the back row. Then, the introverted panic kicked in, and I forcefully yanked my eyes away, staring straight at the stage. *Stop looking,* I scolded myself, my heart rate spiking. *Staring is creepy. You still haven’t learned how to act like a normal human being around her.*`

As the night continued, the formal ceremony transitioned into a casual mixer. Students moved fluidly from group to group, cameras flashed continuously, and videos were recorded in every corner of the courtyard.

And every single time I built up a shred of resolve to walk over and approach Ava, my overthinking brain manufactured a perfect, flawless reason not to.

She’s talking to her close friends right now. I’ll do it later.

The lighting is bad, and they’re moving toward the stage. Bad timing. Later.

She’s currently posing for a group photograph. I shouldn’t interrupt. Later.

She looks busy organizing something with the committee. Later.

The terrible problem with the word “later” was that it kept seamlessly compounding into “never.”

Hours slipped away through my fingers. The event moved forward with an unyielding momentum, and the realistic opportunities began to disappear one by one. Each time I hesitated and watched her walk past, the internal wall grew slightly taller, making it harder to try on the next pass.

At one point, I found myself standing entirely alone near the edge of the refreshments area, a plastic cup in my hand. I hadn’t gone there because I was hungry; I went there because I desperately needed a quiet space to think away from the noise. The music was loud, laughter echoed across the concrete courtyard, and the entire evening felt vividly alive. Yet, my mind was entirely locked on a simple script.

*Just walk over and say hello,* I thought, my grip tightening on the cup. *Two syllables. That is literally all it takes. Not a grand confession, not a dramatic speech, just a normal greeting. Any regular student can do that.*

I couldn’t force my feet to move.

I absolutely hated that realization. It wasn’t even that I was terrified of a polite rejection or that I expected some magical outcome. It was the frustrating, cold fact that I couldn’t even take the absolute first step. The smallest one available.

A little later, the massive group photographs began. Large department pictures, small lab batches, close friend circles, and core project groups. Everyone seemed entirely determined to preserve every single human connection before graduation separated our timelines.

The atmosphere shifted subtly after that. The high energy of the party began to settle into a bittersweet calm. People started exchanging casual, lingering lines as they headed toward the exits.

“See you during the final exam week.” “Make sure you actually stay in touch.” “Don’t completely disappear after we graduate.”

The farewell words sounded casual, almost lighthearted, but everyone in the courtyard knew exactly what they meant under the surface. This specific chapter of our lives was officially hitting its terminal line.

The realization hit my chest much harder than I had expected. It wasn’t just because of the college building or the end of our engineering course. It was because of Ava. For almost an entire year, she had existed somewhere in the background of my daily routine. Class after class, day after day, her voice and her habits had anchor-pointed my mornings.

And despite all that time, I still hadn’t spoken a single word to her.

The farewell ceremony ended shortly after midnight. Students slowly began filtering out through the main gates, the crowd thinning out until the wide courtyard felt entirely empty. The bright fairy lights seemed dimmer against the dark sky, the loud music died down into static, and the cold reality of the upcoming exams rushed right back into the air.

As the three of us walked silently toward the gravel parking area to get our bikes, I stopped for a fraction of a second and glanced back over my shoulder one final time.

I saw Ava standing near the exit steps under a lone streetlamp, still wearing that deep wine-colored dress, laughing softly at a parting comment from her friend. She looked entirely happy, completely at peace, and beautifully unaware of the massive, exhausting war I had spent months fighting inside my own head.

Then, she turned and disappeared into the crowd heading toward the cabs. And that was it. The farewell was over.

The ride back home through the city felt unusually quiet. Even Sam was entirely silent on his scooter, his usual energetic banter drained by the emotional weight of the evening. The major roads were nearly empty, the yellow streetlights passing over my helmet visor one after another in a steady, monotonous rhythm. Neither Jason nor Sam seemed interested in starting a conversation, and I was grateful for the silence.

When I finally reached my room, I changed out of my clothes and collapsed heavily onto my bed. The space was pitch-black and completely silent.

For a very long time, I simply lay flat on my back, staring blindly up at the dark ceiling. My overthinking brain immediately did what it always did—it opened up the archives and began replaying the entire evening on a loop. Every single lost opportunity. Every single cowardly excuse. Every single fleeting moment where I could have simply crossed the floor and said hello.

The worst part of the empty feeling wasn’t the fear of failure. The absolute worst part was the cold, unyielding knowledge that I had never truly tried at all.

Eventually, sheer mental exhaustion began to pull me down toward sleep. But right on the edge of drifting off, one final, painful thought appeared in my mind.

For an entire year, I had continuously told myself I was just waiting for the perfect, logical moment to break the ice. Tonight had been the closest thing to a perfect moment I would ever get. And I had stood in the corner and let it pass by.

Somewhere between the heavy regret and sleep, a quiet realization settled into my head. College wasn’t just ending “soon” anymore. Soon was already here. And it was rapidly turning into a word I couldn’t afford to use again.