He didn't see her again for two weeks.

Not in the library. Not in the hallway. Not even during lunch, where he sat alone as usual with his peanut butter sandwich and silence.

But he remembered her question.

Not just the words, but the way she asked them - like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like not everything had to be explained.

"Do you ever write things you'll never say out loud?"

He had started writing more since then.

Not in paragraphs. Not in stories. But in small, broken thoughts. Lists. Fragments.

"I want to speak more."

"I don't know how to disagree without shaking."

"I feel like I'm always waiting for something to give me permission."

Then one Thursday, there she was again - same seat.

Book in her lap. Black hoodie with sleeves too long. And the same rhythm in her foot tapping the floor.

He thought about saying hi.

But that word felt too big in his mouth.

So he opened his notebook.

He didn't notice her glancing over. Or maybe she wasn't. Maybe she was just... noticing, the way she did things.

"Your handwriting's really neat," she said after a few minutes.

He blinked. Looked at her.

She was watching the page, not him.

"Thanks," he whispered, almost surprised his voice worked.

"You're the kind of person who erases a lot, huh?"

A small laugh escaped him, and it startled them both.

She smiled. "Knew it."

He dared to ask, "What's your name?"

She looked over. "Amaya. Yours?"

He hesitated.

But then: "Aarav."

And just like that, his name felt real again. Not like a roll call. Not like a signature. Just? his.

Later that night, Aarav wrote:

"I said my name today. It didn't echo. It landed."

"Amaya. I want to talk to her again."

It wasn't the start of something big.

But it was something.

And for someone who forgot how to speak up, even a whisper was a revolution.