"The Memory Loop"

Echoes Between words

College looked a little less intimidating on the second day.

Not because anything had changed the hallways still buzzed with voices louder than mine, the canteen still smelled like chai and cheap masala, and the classroom chairs still squeaked like they hated every student who sat on them.

But something felt… lighter.

Maybe because yesterday, someone had smiled at me. And not just in passing — *really* smiled. Like they saw me.
 
I reached the class five minutes early. Again.

Same seat. Second row. Right side. I liked that it had a window.

The breeze drifted in with the scent of damp leaves — someone must’ve watered the garden outside. A sparrow fluttered onto the sill, looked at me like it knew something I didn’t, and then flew away.

I smiled at that.

And then, like the universe had good timing for once, *she* walked in.

Aarvi.

Her hair was tied up messily again, a few strands escaping like they had their own plans. Her bag hung off one shoulder, and she was holding her phone upside down, probably lost in a message.

She looked around the room, confused. Just like yesterday.

“Uh… hey,” she said to no one in particular. “Is this Room 204?”

I looked up and nodded. “Yeah.”

She turned toward me, eyes brightening. “Oh, you’re here too!”

My heart did that awkward skip. Like it was surprised to be noticed.

“You helped me yesterday, right? With the chart?”

I nodded again. “Yeah. You were… almost in Chemistry.”

She laughed. “Right! Thank you. You saved me from starting college with an identity crisis.”

I smiled faintly — still quiet, still cautious.

There were people who spoke because silence bothered them. And then there were people like Aarvi — who spoke like she was weaving you into her world.

Without asking, she sat down beside me.
 
The lecture began. Notes were written. Diagrams drawn. But I barely noticed.

Because every few minutes, she’d nudge me with a whisper:

“Hey, is this supposed to be a right angle?”

“What’s that squiggly thing he drew?”

“Is it just me, or does sir have a vendetta against chalk?”

And somehow, every time, I answered. A word. A nod. A soft laugh.

It wasn’t much. But it was *more* than I usually offered the world.
 
At lunch, I hesitated.

She stood up, stretching with a yawn. “You coming?”

I froze. “Where?”

“To the canteen, obviously. You don’t skip meals, do you?”

I looked down. “I… usually just eat later.”

She narrowed her eyes, as if deciding something.

Then: “Okay. Wait here.”

Before I could ask why, she vanished.

Ten minutes later, she came back holding two paper plates — one with a samosa, one with fries.

“No running today,” she said. “I brought the food to you.”

I blinked. “You… didn’t have to.”

“I know,” she said. “But you look like the kind of guy who wouldn’t ask.”

She was right.

We sat there in the back corner of the class, eating quietly. Well — I ate quietly. She commented on how soggy the fries were, told me a story about her cousin who once ate 12 samosas in a day, and somehow managed to make silence feel like background music instead of awkwardness.
 
Later, during the library period, she sat beside me again.

“Hey,” she whispered. “Don’t laugh, but I actually like the library.”

“I won’t laugh,” I said.

She smiled. “Good. Most people think I’m lying when I say that.”

“You’re not.”

“I know,” she said with a playful smirk. “That’s why I said it to you.”

I looked at her — curious. “Why me?”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “I think you listen better than you talk.”

I smiled. Not many people noticed that.

She pulled out her notebook and scribbled something in the corner. I leaned slightly.

“What’s that?”

She covered the page quickly. “It’s a secret.”

“Oh.”

She hesitated… then showed me anyway.

A tiny doodle of two people sitting by a window, one staring outside, one looking at the other.

Me and her.

I blinked.

“It’s not accurate,” she said quickly. “I’m terrible at drawing ears.”

“No… it’s good,” I said.

Really good.

She smiled — a little softer now.
 
As the final bell rang, students flooded out like waves. I stood up slowly, unsure whether to wait or disappear.

Then her voice found me again.

“Hey, you walking?”

“Yeah.”

“Same shortcut?”

“Same.”

She nodded. “I’ll come too.”

And so we walked.

Past the back gate, down the uneven sidewalk, under that one tree with yellow flowers that looked like sunbursts.

No rush.

She didn’t say much this time. Just hummed a little. A soft, tuneless melody.

Then she said:

“You know, I was nervous before college started.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I’m the kind of person who remembers people before they remember me. It makes things… lonely sometimes.”

I looked at her.

She smiled. “But I think I was wrong this time.”

A breeze blew past us. Quiet. Gentle. Like it agreed.
 
At the turn, she stopped.

“I’ll go this way,” she said. “My house is five minutes that way.”

“Mine too,” I said, pointing the opposite direction.

She looked into her bag, fished something out.

Another chocolate.

“Same one,” she said. “But this time… for talking.”

I hesitated. “I didn’t say much.”

“You said enough.”

She placed it in my hand — carefully, like it mattered.

Then turned, walked away.
 
At home, I placed the chocolate next to yesterday’s.

I didn’t eat either.

I just stared at them — two quiet proofs that someone had reached into my silence… and smiled.
_______________________________________

Some connections aren’t loud. They don’t start with fireworks or fate or running through rain.

They start with a shared bench. A missed class. A chocolate wrapped in a smile.

This chapter isn’t about a love story. It’s about the **beginning** of one. A quiet kind — the kind where eyes speak first, and words take their time.

Aarvi talks. He listens. And somewhere in between those roles… something beautiful is blooming.

To anyone who’s ever been quiet, unnoticed, or forgotten — this story sees you.

And it remembers you.

— *By Anon*