Arian

By his third year, Arian Merrill had stopped finding people interesting. They all revealed themselves the same way: a smile, a glance, an attempt to guess what he wanted. He could predict a remark three moves in advance, like a chess game with a novice. Boredom coiled tightly in his chest.

She entered the auditorium seven minutes late. Sitting in the last row, she didn't even look around. Arian was waiting—usually at that moment, people were looking at him, searching, assessing him. She opened her notebook and began writing.

"New girl," Mark whispered from the left. "Cute."

Arian shrugged. There were plenty of cute ones.

For two weeks, she didn't utter a word in his presence. She remained silent during seminars—the instructor stopped calling on her after her third unsuccessful attempt. In the hallways, she kept her eyes downcast, giving him a wide berth. She didn't return his smiles. He made no jokes.

Mark chuckled:

— Too weak to speak?

"In a week," Arian said. He already knew this excitement—cold, artificial. Like a drug that had worn off, but the habit remained.

He moved to the next row. She didn't look up. He asked the professor loudly for clarification, so she could hear his voice. She didn't turn around.

During the third break he was standing by the window on the stairs when he heard a quiet, intermittent voice behind the door:

— I wanted to ask...

A pause. A gasp. Again:

— I wanted to ask you...

Silence. Then a short, angry exhalation.

Arian didn't move. She repeated the same phrase—three times, five, seven. Each time she stumbled over the same word.

He realized he was clutching his grandfather's watch in his pocket. The mechanism ticked steadily beneath his fingers, a reminder that talent without effort is nothing. He stood and listened as she struggled to say something simple, each syllable a struggle.

The next day, he sat across from her in the dining room. He simply placed a tray down—without asking, without a smile. She flinched, her fingers tightening on her fork.

"Free," he said. And after a pause, he added: "I don't eat by the window. The light gets in the way."

She didn't answer.

He didn't leave.

She finished her meal quickly and stood up. At the door, she turned around—for the first time. Looking at the floor, she asked:

• What are you trying to achieve?

Clean, without a hitch. Arian blinked.

— I'm just sitting next to you.

— There are many places here.

• Mine is here.

She gritted her teeth, turned away, and left. But the next day, when he placed the tray opposite her again, she didn't rise. She merely pushed her plate aside, making room for him.

A week passed in strange silence. They sat at the same table, walked out of the same classroom, and parted ways on the stairs. He didn't touch them. He didn't ask questions. He simply was there—like a piece of furniture you grow accustomed to.

On Friday, in the library, she placed a note on his notes. In legible handwriting: "Why don't you ask?"

He turned the piece of paper over and wrote on the back: “About what?”

She took it, read it, and he saw the corners of her lips twitch—almost a smile. She wrote a new one: "Why don't I tell you?"

Arian thought for a long time. Then he said, "I thought you'd tell me when you wanted."

She looked up. Surprise flashed in her eyes—and something like pain hidden behind the back.

"Slowly," she said aloud. "I speak slowly."

She stumbled on "go", got confused on "vo", and finished speaking through her teeth.

“I heard,” he replied.

• And you... you don't...

She didn't finish. She waved her hand and pressed her lips together.

"I'm in no hurry," said Arian. "I'm in no hurry."

She looked at him for a long time, as if he were a trap that should snap shut, but for some reason remained open.

"Why?" she asked. One word: calm.

Arian was silent. For the first time, his words—quick, precise, deadly—didn't come prepared. He looked at her and felt something stirring inside her, in the empty apartment.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I don’t know yet. Can I walk you home?”

She wanted to say no. He could see it on her lips. But she nodded, picked up her bag, and stood up.

They walked down the corridor. She was silent. He was silent too. And for the first time in his life, this sound—the silence—didn't seem empty to him.

She stopped at the exit and said without turning around:

• Fine.

One word. Light as an exhalation.

Arian watched her leave and didn't understand why he was smiling.

The watch on his wrist grew heavy. Grandfather used to say: a display case is beautiful, but empty. Inside, under the glass, there's only an echo. And for the first time, he wanted someone to hear that echo.

She stopped at the end of the corridor and turned around:

• And what...what...is...your name?

• Arian.

• I z-za...za...remembered.

And she left without looking back. He stood there, staring at the empty door, feeling something new slowly taking shape inside him, syllable by syllable.

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