I Swear You Will Be Fine

A few days ago, I took an exam for the first time with you in my mind and heart, instead of just a few tables away like before. This trimester was the first I’ve completed without your physical presence. No hearing your voice asking how the assignments went, no discussions and debates about interesting concepts, no hours-long study sessions in your room or at the dining table with you. And yet, I felt you everywhere with me, as always, like a shadow stitched into my footsteps, sitting in the same places we always are – a little beyond reach, a little beyond sight.

I think we’ve already established that without you, even the smallest things feel heavier. My days are now filled with difficult train rides, silent study sessions, and empty classes. School is now but a lonely climb without your laughter and comforting presence to fill the space beside me. But exams… were by far one of the toughest to get through. With you, they used to feel lighter. I’d be more confident after we had bounced ideas off of each other. Days leading up to a paper, I’d test you, and you’d test me right back. You’d ask if I’d memorized everything, then rant about how intuitive and redundant the information is before revealing that you’d memorized every last detail anyway. You’d check my Statistics cheat sheet for me to make sure I didn’t leave anything out, and I’d remind you not to forget to put in the smallest details even if we might not end up needing them.

On exam day, we had our little ritual. Wishing each other luck, placing our bags side by side at the front of the exam hall like tiny anchors of solidarity. You’d gently tap me and wish me luck again before we parted ways to our seats. After sitting down, I’d always look around for you, knowing you were scanning around for me too. We’d always be early, waiting for our papers to begin and occasionally turning to each other to make a face if someone was acting funny. During the paper, we’d sporadically lift our eyes to think and catch each other’s gaze, offering a small smile – a reminder that we weren’t and won’t ever be alone. When the paper ended, we’d unravel every answer we could recall like kids trading secrets, celebrating every similar answer and spiraling onto Google over any difference, rushing to find out who got it right.

Now, silence is not just silence. The silence is a reminder of your conspicuous absence, the presence of a thundercloud that follows me everywhere I go. Silence has become a constant echo of what could have been and the cards we were instead dealt with. I won’t be able to casually glance over at you and see you vigorously writing, or drifting off into thought with that familiar look on your face. I won’t be able to finish the exam early, catch your eye, and see your proud little smile. I won’t see you calmly raise your hand, submit your paper, and confidently stride out the exam hall. And I won’t be able to follow a few seconds later, knowing we made it through together.

But… I can still see you. I see you in the seat next to mine. I see you walking beside me. I see you leaving the exam hall early, waiting for me outside, leaning against the wall looking down at your phone. I see you light up when you see me, walking towards you excitedly. I see us, walking out of school with a bounce in our steps, already talking about going home and spending a carefree afternoon playing games. I see every expression you wore – your smile, your cool default expression, your thinking face, your joy when things go right and frustration when things don’t… I can see them all.

I may not be able to see you, but I still see you – woven into the silence around me. You’re still with me… louder than silence, closer than skin, in every stillness, in every step. I still do the things we did, and the things we were supposed to do. And in all of them, I am never without you.

Can’t wait to see you and talk to you again. I love you more, always, and forever.

Love always,
Sha