Before We Knew

Thoughts Between Classes

The hallway buzzed with students shifting between classes, voices mingling with the clatter of lockers. Ruhi walked beside Sidro, her bag snug against her shoulder, nodding as Sidro rattled off yet another cafeteria complaint.

“…and if they serve that rubbery macaroni again, I might actually cry,” Sidro muttered, clutching her books like it was a personal betrayal.

“You say that every week,” Ruhi replied, lips curling at the edges.

“Because it is a betrayal. Weekly.”

They turned the corner, and up ahead, Ruhi’s gaze drifted—just for a moment—to the far window where Junaid stood, flipping through a textbook. He didn’t seem to notice the rush around him. His posture was relaxed, his focus steady.

Sidro caught the look. “Not you zoning out again.”

“I wasn’t,” Ruhi replied, quickly.

Sidro raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Uh-huh.”

Ruhi shifted her bag and pushed the classroom door open, slipping into her usual seat by the window. Thin sunlight streamed across her desk, warming the paper edges of her notebook. A breeze whispered faintly through the small opening in the windowpane, carrying distant laughter from another hallway.

A few moments later, Junaid entered and sat two rows ahead, not once turning back. But somehow—maybe—it felt like he noticed.

Mr. Larkin walked in with his usual tired energy and began his lecture. Equations filled the board. Pens scratched against paper. Ruhi tried to focus, but part of her mind lingered—on how some people never needed to speak loudly to be heard. Some people simply were.

She respected that. Quiet strength. Intention.

A soft thump beside her drew her attention. Sidro had finally arrived and dropped into her seat with an exaggerated sigh.

“I had to chase Farid down for his calculator. He made me answer a riddle first.”

Ruhi blinked. “Did you get it right?”

“I didn’t. He just felt sorry for me.”

Ruhi smiled, shaking her head.

Class passed in a quiet rhythm. Mr. Larkin’s voice filled the space, but Ruhi’s thoughts floated in between—on little things. Like how peaceful the courtyard looked from the window. Like how the people around her moved in patterns, some predictable, some not.

When the bell rang, chairs scraped back, books zipped into bags.

Sidro stood, stretching. “Finally. That felt like a century.”

As Ruhi gathered her things, she glanced up. Junaid was already at the door, but for a brief second, he paused and glanced back—not long enough to be noticed, but long enough to feel intentional.

And then he walked away.

Ruhi followed Sidro out, her pace unhurried.

Small moments again.

And small moments, if they kept happening, could quietly become something more.