Before We Knew

Quiet Corners and Distant Skies

The morning fog still lingered as Ruhi stepped out of the house, her coat buttoned tightly and a thermos tucked in her bag. It was one of those Saturdays where everything moved slowly, as if the day itself hadn’t quite woken up.

She wasn’t headed anywhere in particular—just needed space. Space to think, to breathe, to wait.

Her scholarship decision hadn’t come yet, and though she hadn’t told anyone, the silence of it felt louder every day.

Instead of turning toward the usual route to the academy, she took a quieter path through the community garden behind the school buildings. The benches there were often empty this early, and the garden—though bare in the cold—still held a peaceful kind of silence.

To her surprise, someone was already sitting there.

Junaid.

He was leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, gaze fixed on the stone path in front of him. A notebook was on his lap, pen tucked in his hand, unmoving.

Ruhi paused but didn’t turn back.

He looked up at the sound of her steps and gave a small nod. “Didn’t think anyone else came here this early.”

“I could say the same,” she said softly, sitting at the opposite end of the bench.

A beat passed. Then two.

“You okay?” he asked—not pressing, just offering.

Ruhi glanced at the ground, then back up at the grey sky. “Just... waiting.”

He understood more than she expected. “For the scholarship news?”

Her eyes widened slightly. “How did you—?”

“You looked worried the other day. At the library. You’ve been quieter than usual.” He shrugged lightly. “And you work hard. I figured something important was on your mind.”

Ruhi exhaled, long and slow. She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath for days. “It’s just... I don’t know what I’ll do if it doesn’t come through.”

“You’ll find another way,” Junaid said, his voice calm, certain. “But I hope it does. You deserve it.”

That word—deserve—echoed in her chest. She looked at him fully now, meeting his gaze for more than a passing glance.

“I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

“I notice,” he said. “Even if I don’t always say something.”

The wind moved between them like a third voice—soft, unseen.

From somewhere in the distance, a bird took flight, wings cutting across the pale sky.

They didn’t speak again for a while. They didn’t need to.

Just two people sitting quietly in a garden that still felt alive—even in winter.