Naeema wasn’t supposed to be home this early.

She had left the house at 7:30 sharp, hair in a tight braid, earbuds in, shoulder bag filled with worn-out notebooks, a tiffin box, and her usual quiet annoyance at Dhaka traffic. It took her nearly an hour to get to campus — and another fifteen minutes to climb the worn stairs to her department — only to find a half-torn notice taped to the door: "Class canceled due to emergency faculty meeting."

Typical.

The irritation simmered inside her all the way back through the jam, made worse by the heavy afternoon drizzle and a CNG driver who kept blasting loud Hindi songs from the 2000s. By the time she stepped through the gate of her neighborhood, her canvas shoes were soggy and her mood worse.

And then, she saw him.

Sitting on the steps of his gate like he had nowhere better to be. Wearing the same old shirt he always wore when he wasn’t expecting to be seen — and that half-smile Naeema hated.

He said something. Some casual tease. She didn’t even hear all of it. She snapped back with a line that was sharper than she meant. He just smiled again — like he always did.

She didn’t wait for a response.

She stormed into her house, kicked off her wet shoes, and changed into the first oversized t-shirt she grabbed from the cupboard. Her wet braid left a small trail of droplets across the hallway as she made her way to the kitchen. The rain was still falling outside — soft and rhythmic — like the city was too tired to pour any harder.

A cup of cha helped.

She sat on the small second-floor balcony, legs tucked under her, mug warm in her hands. From where she sat, she could just barely see the rooftop next door through the grilled windows.

It was empty.

She told herself she didn’t care.

Still, she stayed there longer than she needed to. Just sipping slowly. Listening to the sound of rickshaws passing, to the azaan from a nearby mosque. The smell of shorshe ilish drifted from somewhere — maybe his house. His mother always cooked like it was Eid, even on weekdays.

And for a moment, Naeema found herself thinking about childhood. About bruised knees, cricket balls lost on rooftops, and that one time he hit her ankle with a slingshot and claimed it was “aim practice.”

She hadn’t forgotten. She probably never would.

But the fact that she still remembered the exact shade of blue that shirt was... annoyed her more than anything else.

She got up. Left the empty mug on the railing.

If he knocked on the wall like he used to — just once — maybe she’d go upstairs.

Just to say something. Or maybe nothing at all.