The Physics Message

There are people who enter your life properly.

You meet them. You become friends. You know when it happened.

And then there are people who somehow walk back into your life through a completely ordinary message and, before you realise what is happening, become part of every single day.

She was the second kind.

We were schoolmates.

Not best friends. Not even particularly good friends.

If anything, we were the kind of schoolmates who were always one sentence away from fighting.

We argued over seats, notes, stupid jokes, teachers, who had said what, and occasionally over things neither of us could remember five minutes later.

She was irritating.

I was irritating.

Together, we were apparently very committed to proving it.

Then Class 12 ended.

Everyone scattered.

College applications. Entrance exams. New cities. New friends.

The old school group slowly became a collection of silent names.

She became one of them.

Months passed.

Then one night during my first year of college, my phone buzzed.

It was her.

That was how it started.

Not with a confession.

Not with nostalgia.

Physics.

She needed help finding a Physics tutor.

I knew someone.

I gave her the number.

She asked whether he was good, about timings, fees, location.

I answered everything.

And somewhere between Physics and tuition fees, we started talking again.

The strange thing was how quickly the old rhythm came back.

The arguments.

The teasing.

The stupid one-line replies.

The feeling that even after all those months, we had simply paused a conversation instead of ending it.

A few days later, my friend noticed her name lighting up my phone.

He glanced at it.

“Her?”

“Yeah.”

“You two started talking again?”

“Apparently.”

He laughed.

“You used to fight with her every day.”

“We still do.”

He looked at the screen again.

“You talk to her a lot though.”

“She’s my friend.”

“I know.”

Then he left it there.

I didn't think much of it.

After that, the messages became regular.

Then daily.

Then constant.

At first, we still had reasons.

She needed notes.

I needed to ask something about school.

She wanted a book.

I knew where to find it.

Then the reasons started disappearing.

The messages didn't.

Good morning became normal.

Good night became mandatory.

And then photos became mandatory too.

Not beautiful photos.

Not carefully planned photos.

Just life.

Her morning face.

My breakfast.

Her college corridor.

My desk.

A new dress.

A terrible cup of tea.

The sky.

A book.

A random selfie.

Sometimes she would simply write:

look.

And a photo would arrive.

I started doing the same.

Our phones slowly became a record of each other's ordinary lives.

Somewhere along the way, our days acquired a strange rule.

They didn't really feel finished until we had seen each other.

Sometimes it was a proper video call.

Sometimes ten minutes.

Sometimes two hours.

Sometimes we would simply keep the call running while doing separate things.

She would study.

I would pretend to study.

One of us would occasionally look at the screen just to check that the other was still there.

If the call ended too early, one of us would eventually text:

Are you still awake?

And that was enough.

There were days when I saw her face more than I saw my own friends.

That sounds ridiculous.

It didn't feel ridiculous then.

It felt normal.

There was another habit that appeared without either of us deciding it.

Goodnight kisses.

At first it was a joke.

A small kiss emoji.

Then another.

Then sometimes a ridiculous chain of them.

Goodnight.

One kiss.

Then three.

Then ten because apparently neither of us could count properly.

Some nights we would send them back and forth until one of us finally said:

Okay. Sleep.

The first time her sister saw the conversation the next morning, things became very quiet.

Her sister had apparently picked up the phone while she was asleep.

She saw the chat.

And saw the goodnight kisses.

A lot of them.

I found out because she texted me in a panic.

For a few minutes, neither of us knew what to say.

There was that strange tense feeling where something completely harmless suddenly looked much more serious because another person had seen it.

Nothing happened after that.

Her sister didn't confront me.

There was no family drama.

It simply became one of those things we both remembered.

But after that, whenever we sent the last kiss of the night, there was occasionally a tiny pause.

Like we both knew the chat was no longer entirely private.

And then, inevitably, we did it again.

Because we were idiots.

The first real fight happened one evening.

Not one of our usual stupid arguments.

A proper one.

I don't even remember what started it.

Something tiny.

A message I hadn't replied to quickly enough. Something she'd said. Something I'd misunderstood.

By seven in the evening, we were both irritated.

By eight, we were properly fighting.

She was angry in a way I hadn't seen before.

Not her usual teasing anger.

She was genuinely upset.

And because I didn't understand what was happening, I kept answering like it was an argument that needed to be won.

She kept going.

I kept defending myself.

At some point she said something that, at the time, I completely misunderstood.

She said it was her mood swings.

I had heard the phrase before.

Of course I had.

But I didn't actually understand what she meant.

I thought she was saying her mood was changing and that was somehow my problem.

So I gave her the most spectacularly stupid answer possible.

What can I do about your mood?

You manage your own mood.

That “okay” was different.

The conversation ended soon after.

No goodnight.

No kiss.

Nothing.

I went to bed thinking I'd made a perfectly reasonable point.

I didn't know what I'd missed.

I didn't know what “mood swings” meant in that context.

I didn't know she was talking about the days around her period.

I just thought she was being angry and using a phrase to explain it.

Months later, when I finally understood what she'd actually meant, I remembered that evening.

And honestly?

That was probably the first time I thought:

I might have really fucked that one up.

Not because I had intended to hurt her.

I hadn't.

I was just unbelievably naive.

And sometimes being naive doesn't make the words hurt less.

The funny thing was that she forgave me.

Or perhaps she simply got used to me.

We continued.

My friend noticed something had happened.

He asked why I looked annoyed.

I told him we'd fought.

“Again?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled.

“Maybe you two should stop talking.”

I laughed.

He didn't.

A few days later, he saw us back to normal.

“Already?”

“Already what?”

“Nothing.”

I ignored him.

Then came the question.

It was late.

We were talking about nothing.

She suddenly typed:

What would you do if I proposed to you right now?

I laughed.

I genuinely thought it was a joke.

I went to sleep completely unaware that I might have just walked past something important.

That was probably the most accurate description of me during that period.

She would put something obvious directly in front of me, and I would politely move it aside and continue discussing something completely unrelated.

My friend was starting to notice too.

One afternoon he saw me smiling at my phone.

“You're talking to her again?”

“Obviously.”

“You talk to her every day?”

“Pretty much.”

He paused.

“You know that's a lot, right?”

“She’s my friend.”

“I know.”

That became his favourite answer.

I still didn't understand what he was trying to tell me.

College life, meanwhile, had decided not to let me remain emotionally undisturbed.

Friends fighting.

Projects collapsing.

A roommate problem.

One professor who seemed personally offended by my existence.

And somehow, she was the person I told first.

Not because I had decided she was important.

It just happened.

If something went wrong, I opened WhatsApp and looked for her name.

If something good happened, same thing.

She became the first person I wanted to tell things to without ever becoming the person I had officially called my best friend.

There was never a ceremony.

No promotion from schoolmate to friend.

Just repetition.

Hundreds of little choices.

One evening my friend saw me leave something just to take her call.

He waited until the call ended.

“You're getting attached.”

“No I'm not.”

“You didn't even think before leaving.”

“She needed me.”

He nodded.

“That's what I'm talking about.”

I laughed it off.

He didn't push further.

A few weeks later, he said something else.

“Just be careful.”

“About what?”

“Her.”

“Why?”

He shrugged.

“Something about her.”

“That is not an answer.”

“I know.”

He left it there.

I did too.

One afternoon I had a particularly terrible day.

A college argument had turned into something bigger than it needed to be.

I was furious.

She called.

I answered.

She didn't ask what happened.

She just stayed.

For twenty minutes, I complained and she listened.

Then she told me I was done now, to go eat something, and that someone had to be the bossy one.

I laughed.

That was the first time I noticed something strange.

When I was with her, even my bad days felt shorter.

Then came the train.

I don't remember exactly why we had to meet.

Maybe she had something to give me.

Maybe I had something for her.

Maybe neither of us needed a reason anymore.

What I remember is the hurry.

I was running late.

The train was about to leave.

I climbed into the compartment with my bag half-open, checking my phone while trying not to fall over.

My friend knew I was going.

He looked at me and said:

“Again?”

“Again.”

He shook his head.

“Just remember what I told you.”

I laughed.

“You're obsessed with this.”

He said nothing.

I didn't understand why he kept warning me.

She had a different problem.

Her family didn't know she was meeting me.

Her sister thought she was going somewhere else.

So she lied.

A small lie.

A harmless one, she said later.

She told her sister she had to go out for something.

And then she came.

When I found out, I laughed and called it dramatic.

She told me to shut up.

I remember her smiling when she said it.

I also remember telling my friend later.

He didn't laugh.

He just said:

“That's exactly what I mean.”

I asked him what he meant.

He said:

“You're already making excuses for things you wouldn't accept from anyone else.”

I told him he was being ridiculous.

He told me to stay careful.

Then we changed the subject.

Again.

Then it rained.

Not the polite kind.

The sudden kind that turns a normal afternoon into a story.

We both had umbrellas.

That should have solved the problem.

It didn't.

We walked together anyway.

Sometimes one umbrella.

Sometimes two.

Sometimes neither.

At one point the rain became so heavy that both umbrellas were practically useless.

We were laughing.

Actually laughing.

Wet shoes.

Wet sleeves.

Hair sticking to faces.

People running past us.

And neither of us seemed particularly interested in finding shelter.

It was stupid.

Completely unnecessary.

We could have walked into a shop.

Waited.

Called a cab.

Instead we kept walking.

Two people with umbrellas, somehow getting soaked anyway.

That day became one of those memories that doesn't need a reason to return.

Sometimes I'd remember the rain.

Sometimes she'd send me a photo of the sky and say:

remember?

I always knew what she meant.

The days continued.

Good morning.

Photo.

College.

Lunch.

Some random complaint.

Video call.

Goodnight.

Kisses.

Repeat.

Our conversations became so ordinary that they became extraordinary.

There was another thing.

She started getting jealous.

At least, I think she did.

If I mentioned another girl too often, she'd become quiet.

If I didn't reply quickly, she'd ask what I was doing.

If she said “fine,” I eventually learned that it never meant fine.

But I was still me.

Naive.

I often thought she was simply being dramatic.

Sometimes she was.

Sometimes she wasn't.

I couldn't tell.

My friend noticed the jealousy too.

One day, after seeing a message from her pop up on my phone, he said:

“You know she's talking to other people too, right?”

I looked at him.

“Obviously. She has friends.”

He shrugged.

“I'm not talking about friends.”

I laughed.

He didn't.

Again.

That became his pattern.

He would say something.

I would dismiss it.

He would let it go.

A week later, he would say something similar.

Not enough to prove anything.

Never a dramatic accusation.

Just small warnings scattered through our lives.

“She doesn't seem loyal.”

“Don't assume you know everything.”

“Don't build your whole day around her.”

“Be careful.”

And every time I had the same answer.

“She is my friend.”

Sometimes he would simply look at me.

Like he wanted to say:

That's exactly what I'm worried about.

But he never did.

She helped me too.

When I had a presentation.

When I was sick.

When I needed someone to tell me I was being stupid.

She was very good at that last one.

She would tell me I was overthinking.

And when I argued, she would say it was because she knew me.

That sentence stayed with me.

Because I knew her too.

Or thought I did.

One night she got drunk again.

The messages started normally.

Then they didn't.

The conversation became increasingly teasing.

A little too honest.

I got nervous.

Not uncomfortable.

Just completely unequipped.

So I tried to move it somewhere safer.

I asked about her classes.

Then her exams.

Then whether she had drunk enough water.

She called me boring.

I accepted the accusation.

Eventually she said she missed me.

That part I understood.

At least I thought I did.

The next morning she remembered most of it.

Neither of us talked about the parts we both knew were sitting there.

My friend later saw me smiling at my phone and asked:

“Still her?”

I said yes.

He sighed.

“Just don't ignore everything because you like her.”

I asked:

“What am I ignoring?”

He said:

“That's the problem.”

Eventually, the friendship became something neither of us could explain properly.

People around us noticed.

Friends asked:

“Are you two dating?”

I would laugh.

She would laugh.

We would both say no.

Technically, that was true.

But the question became harder to answer over time.

Because what exactly were we doing?

Talking every day.

Sending morning photos.

Calling every night.

Sending goodnight kisses.

Meeting whenever possible.

Knowing each other's moods.

Getting jealous.

Getting angry.

Making up.

Missing each other.

Still calling it friendship.

Maybe friendship was simply the word we had because neither of us had found a better one.

Then came another college crisis.

Her admission process for a better college became complicated.

Documents.

Deadlines.

Fees.

Books.

Hostel.

She was overwhelmed.

I helped.

Not because I was some heroic person.

It was just easier for me to solve the practical problems than to watch her panic.

I checked forms.

Found information.

Helped her figure out what books she needed.

Called people.

Sent links.

Reminded her about deadlines.

She kept saying she didn't know what she'd do without me.

And every time, I gave the same stupid answer:

“You'd figure it out.”

She would reply:

“Maybe.”

I never told her that I liked being needed.

Then came the day she got the admission.

I wasn't even with her.

I was on a bus with another friend.

My phone buzzed.

I looked down.

Her message.

She had got in.

For a second I just stared at the screen.

Then I shouted.

My friend looked at me.

“What happened?”

“She got it!”

“Who?”

“Her!”

He knew immediately.

And before the bus had even properly stopped, I was already telling him to get down.

We literally jumped out of the bus to celebrate.

There was no party.

No music.

No crowd.

Just the two of us standing near the road, laughing like idiots because someone I cared about had got into the college she wanted.

My friend looked at me.

“You just jumped out of a moving bus for her admission?”

I said:

“Tiny thing. But she got it.”

He smiled.

Then shook his head.

“You're gone.”

I laughed.

Maybe I was.

Then he said:

“I'm still telling you to stay careful.”

I looked at him.

“You really don't trust her, do you?”

He paused.

“I don't know her well enough to say that.”

“Then why do you keep saying it?”

“Because I know you.”

That shut me up.

Later that evening, she called.

She was excited.

I was more excited than she was.

She said:

“You're happier than me.”

I said:

“Obviously.”

Then there was silence.

She said:

“Thank you.”

I didn't know what to say.

So I said:

“Don't mess up Physics.”

She laughed.

Of course she did.

The night before she left, she asked if I remembered the first time she texted me.

I said:

“Physics.”

She laughed.

Then she said:

“Maybe I needed something else.”

I asked:

“What?”

She didn't answer.

She just said goodnight.

And, as usual, sent a kiss.

Then another.

Then one more.

I sent mine back.

For a second, neither of us said anything.

Then she wrote:

“Don't let my sister see this.”

I laughed.

“Too late.”

She sent an angry emoji.

Then:

“Goodnight.”

Months later, her new college changed things.

Not immediately.

But slowly.

New people.

New classes.

New routines.

Still, the messages continued.

Good morning.

Photo.

Call.

Sometimes the calls were shorter.

Sometimes the replies slower.

But whenever we did talk, it felt like nothing had changed.

My friend kept asking about her.

I stopped telling him everything.

Not because I was hiding something.

I just didn't want another warning.

One evening he said:

“You know I only keep saying it because I don't want you getting hurt.”

I said:

“I know.”

Then he asked:

“Do you trust her?”

I answered too quickly.

“Yes.”

He nodded.

“Okay.”

That was all.

No argument.

No accusation.

Just okay.

And somehow that answer stayed with me.

Then one evening, completely out of nowhere, she sent:

I stared at the message.

No confession.

No explanation.

Just:

Let's meet.

Then:

I want to ask you something.

In person.

For once, I didn't joke.

I looked back through our chat.

Years of messages.

Good mornings.

Good nights.

Photos.

Video calls.

Kisses.

Arguments.

Rain.

Trains.

Admissions.

Books.

“Miss you.”

“Call?”

“Are you awake?”

“Stay.”

“Let's meet.”

And somewhere in all of it was a question I had apparently been too naive to hear when she first asked it.

What would you do if I proposed to you right now?

Back then, I had laughed.

Now I wasn't so sure.

And somewhere in the back of my mind was my friend's voice.

Be careful.

Don't assume you know everything.

Maybe he had been wrong.

Maybe he had been right.

Maybe it didn't matter anymore.

Because she had asked me to meet.

And I was going.

This time, I wasn't running away from the question.

I just didn't know what the question was.

To be continued.