CHAPTER 8-- ANOTHER MEN

College life had a rhythm of its own—lectures, canteen breaks, library hours, and the quiet hum of conversations that drifted through corridors. Somewhere in that rhythm, Ayla found herself speaking more often with a new classmate. He wasn’t entirely new to the college, just new to her world, and slowly, he began appearing in her stories.

It started small.

Ayla (smiling as she entered the canteen one afternoon):
“You know, he’s really good at explaining statistics. I was so lost in class, but the way he broke it down… it suddenly made sense!”

Her eyes glowed as she spoke, and Aariz—sitting across from her with a half-eaten sandwich—noticed. He always noticed.

He forced a smile, nodding as if the joy in her voice was his own.

Aariz:
“That’s good. At least you won’t struggle in the next test then.”

Inside, his heart tightened. It wasn’t the subject that mattered—it was the way her voice danced when she mentioned the other man’s name, the way her smile lingered longer than usual.

Days passed, and so did little moments. In the library, Ayla waved to someone across the hall and hurried to borrow a book with him. During group discussions, Aariz found himself watching her laugh at a joke that wasn’t his.

At night, when everyone else slept, Aariz sat at his desk, pen hovering over his diary. The words spilled out silently:

“She doesn’t even know she’s slipping away. And I don’t have the right to stop her. If she’s happy, isn’t that enough?”

The next day, Ayla leaned across the table in the canteen again, excitement lighting her face.

Ayla:
“You won’t believe it—he recommended this novel to me, and I think I’m going to love it. He even said he could lend me his copy.”

Aariz laughed softly, his voice steady though his chest ached.

Aariz:
“Sounds like he has good taste.”

He pushed his tray aside, making space for her bag, the way he always did. She didn’t notice. She never noticed.

That evening, it rained again. The campus roads shimmered under streetlights, puddles rippling with every drop. Aariz walked home alone, no umbrella, water soaking through his shirt. His hand rested inside his pocket, fingers brushing against a folded photograph of the last trip—Ayla’s smile captured forever.

He whispered into the rain, words no one would ever hear:

Aariz (to himself):
“I don’t need her to know. I just want her to be happy… even if it’s not with me.”

The diary would hold the rest of his silence.