The morning after the farewell ceremony felt strangely, frustratingly normal.

That baseline reality deeply annoyed me. After the intense internal chaos of the previous night—or rather, the complete lack of action on my part—I had fully expected the universe to feel fundamentally different when I woke up.

It didn’t. The sun rose in the exact same spot, my phone alarm rang with its usual aggressive tone, and the world outside my window continued moving exactly as it always had. Only I felt different, carrying a heavy, hollow weight in my chest.

For the next few days, I tried to force my entire focus onto the upcoming examinations. It was the only logical thing to do. Final exams were approaching with a relentless speed, our semester assignments were finally turned in, and our capstone projects were nearly complete. The academic year was officially reaching its final, brutal stretch. There were more than enough critical things to worry about.

At least, that was the practical lie I kept telling myself whenever I opened a textbook.

Unfortunately, my brain had developed a stubborn habit over the past few months. Every single time I sat down at my desk and tried to parse through a technical chapter, a completely different stream of thought would take over. It wasn’t even about Ava anymore; it was about regret.

Which was somehow far worse. Regret came with an automatic replay button, and my mind loved to press it.

I replayed the farewell evening more times than I was willing to admit. I pictured myself standing completely frozen near the refreshments area, watching the hours slip away. I remembered thinking “later” every time she walked past, doing absolutely nothing, and then watching the night end as she disappeared into the crowd. Every single version of that memory ended exactly the same way—with me walking away in silence.

One evening, after spending nearly twenty minutes staring blankly at the exact same page of notes without reading a single word, I slammed the book shut with a heavy sigh.

“This is completely useless.”

The room remained entirely silent around me, offering no answers. I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling, and forced myself to analyze the problem realistically.

Trying to talk to Ava in person felt entirely impossible now. Regular classes had ended, the semester was over, and the entire department was entering an intense study-leave isolation mode. Students only showed up to the campus to write the papers and left immediately after. Real-world opportunities to bump into her were becoming rare. Tragically rare.

Then, a sudden thought appeared in my mind—a simple, obvious option that probably should have occurred to me months ago.

Social media exists.

I immediately hated the idea. Then, a second later, I completely liked it. Then, my introverted defenses kicked back in, and I absolutely hated it all over again.

Finding her account wouldn’t be very difficult; we shared dozens of mutual classmates, after all. But actually sending a digital request? That felt monumental.

For the next two nights, I turned into a detective. An incredibly clumsy, hesitant detective.

I started by quietly sorting through the follower lists of our mutual lab partners, navigating through profiles connected to people, who were connected to other people. Several times, I felt completely convinced I had found the correct profile, only to realize a second later that I was looking at an entirely different person. At one point, I spent a solid fifteen minutes analyzing the public feed of a stranger who just happened to share the same first name.

The entire situation was completely ridiculous, and I knew it. Yet, I kept doing it anyway, usually late at night when the house was dead silent and I was supposed to be cramming for the first paper.

Eventually, after far more manual sorting than necessary, I finally found it.

I was ninety-nine percent sure it was her, even though the account was completely private, showing a flat zero under the post counter. I tapped the small thumbnail to look closer. The profile picture showed a young woman taking a mirror selfie. Her long dark hair fell over her shoulders, and she wore a bright red top with gold bracelets on one wrist. The phone covered most of her face, giving the photo a private, mysterious feel.

It felt exactly like her—completely unbothered by the need to overshare, keeping her world entirely to herself.

I stared at the glowing screen of my phone, the blue Follow button looking significantly larger than it actually was. My thumb hovered over the glass, inches away from the target. Then I pulled my hand back. Then I brought it back to the screen. Then I retreated again.

“What am I actually doing right now?” I muttered to myself, letting out a soft, self-deprecating laugh.

The strange thing was that I wasn’t even terrified of a digital rejection. Not really. I was terrified of making the situation real. As long as I kept my distance and did absolutely nothing, everything stayed safely contained inside the borders of my own head. It was a controlled environment. But the exact micro-second I pressed that button, the boundary would break. Something would change, even if it was only a tiny shift in her notification feed.

I spent another five minutes trapped in my own hesitation. Then another five. Finally, before my overthinking mind could manufacture another flawless excuse to run away, I leaned forward and tapped the screen.

Friend request sent.

For a second, absolutely nothing happened. Which made perfect sense—it was a digital button, not a magic spell. Yet, my heart rate violently disagreed, thumping hard against my ribs.

I immediately locked the device and placed it face down on the wooden desk, pushing it a few inches away as if looking at the glass would somehow make the action irreversible.

The following morning, I forcefully directed my entire capacity toward studying. The first core engineering exam was only forty-eight hours away, and my internal logic knew there was no room left for distractions.

Soon enough, the high-stakes examination season arrived, and the overall atmosphere of the campus transformed overnight. The casual morning banter and laughter vanished completely, replaced by a collective, palpable panic. Students carried crumpled reference sheets everywhere they went, and tight circles were huddled in the corridors, frantically revising formulas until the very last second. Even Sam looked completely serious, pacing the hallway with his textbook open—a rare sight that was genuinely concerning to witness.

On the morning of the first paper, I met Jason and Sam outside the main examination block. Neither of them looked entirely confident, which, in a strange way, made my own anxiety feel a bit more manageable.

The massive hall assigned to our department was deeply familiar—rows of isolated wooden desks, the low hum of the ceiling fans, and a room full of nervous students pretending to be completely calm. I walked down the aisle, found my specific seat number, and dropped my stationery kit onto the desk.

Then, completely out of habit, my eyes performed a slow, involuntary scan of the front rows.

Ava was there. She was sitting three rows ahead of my section, her head bowed as she reviewed a sheet of notes one final time.

For a brief moment, the suffocating stress of the upcoming paper completely cleared from my mind. It was that same grounding, calm sensation I had never been able to properly explain to myself—the simple relief of her being in the room.

As she turned a page, I noticed she looked incredibly tired. There were faint, dark circles underscoring her eyes, likely from the same sleepless study schedule the rest of us were enduring. Final engineering exams weren’t exactly known for protecting anyone’s sleep cycle.

Sitting in the back row, I found myself wanting to wish her good luck. Not out loud, of course—I didn’t have the courage for that—but just a quiet, internal thought sent across the desks.

*Good luck,* I thought, keeping my eyes fixed on her row. *I hope the paper goes well for you.*

The heavy corridor bell rang a second later, and the invigilator stepped through the front door, calling for absolute silence. Packets of answer sheets were sliced open, and the cold reality of the exam rushed right back into focus.

The paper itself was incredibly difficult, but it wasn’t a total catastrophe either. Which, by our department’s notoriously harsh standards, counted as a massive success.

The second I unlocked the front door of my house after the long commute back, I dropped my backpack onto the floor and immediately reached into my pocket for my phone. Then, I froze mid-motion.

I knew exactly what I was checking for, and I hated how transparent my own actions were becoming to myself.

Taking a deep, stabilizing breath, I swiped the screen open and launched the application. The interface loaded in a slow, agonizing second. At first glance, nothing looked out of the ordinary.

Then, my eyes caught the small orange icon in the notification tab.

Friend Request Accepted.

I stood entirely still in the hallway, staring fixedly at the text. I read the three words once. Then again. Then a third time just to ensure my tired eyes weren’t misinterpreting the data.

A small, involuntary smile appeared on my face before I could even attempt to stop it—a stupid, genuine smile. It was the exact kind of reaction people have when a tiny, insignificant detail means significantly more to them than it ever should.

For the rest of the evening, I couldn’t focus on my remaining notes at all. It wasn’t because some massive, life-altering event had occurred. It was simply because something finally had. For months, Ava had existed strictly as a distant, untouchable part of my daily routine—a classmate, a quiet observation, a collection of overheard conversations from the back row.

Now, there was a connection. A tiny, fragile digital link, but it was real.

The problem was that my overthinking brain didn’t let the relief last for very long. Within minutes, a brand-new question rose up to replace the old ones, and this one looked far more dangerous than anything before it.

I placed the phone back onto the desk, turned off my lamp, and stared up at the dark ceiling as the loop started again.

*Okay...* I thought into the quiet room. *Now what do I do?*