Every morning, as the University bus rumbled to a halt at the Senate Hall stop, Anne stepped in like a quiet melody. Dressed in modest, pastel-colored frocks, a Bible tucked into her arm, she carried an aura that made people turn and look—but only for a moment, for she never encouraged attention. She’d climb aboard, offer a gentle nod to the driver, and take her usual seat—third row from the front, by the window.

From the back of the bus, Vinod watched her.

A postgraduate student in Environmental Science at Kariavattom campus, Vinod was hardly the kind to be silenced by words. He was a speaker in college debates, often found passionately discussing politics or ecology under the banyan tree outside the department. But when it came to Anne, words abandoned him.

He didn't even know her name until he overheard someone whisper, "That’s Anne, the girl from the Philosophy department. Christian. Very quiet."

He had nodded to himself, storing the name like a secret prayer.

Every day, their silent routine played out with clockwork precision. Anne would enter, eyes lowered, only lifting them occasionally to glance around—and that’s when their eyes would meet. For a fraction of a second, no more. She would then look away, lips twitching into the faintest smile. He never smiled back. He couldn’t. His throat would tighten, like some invisible hand had wrapped itself around his voice.

The bus would wind its way through the city, past the bookshops, the cathedral, and finally the lush green stretch of campus road to Kariavattom. Anne would descend first. Vinod would wait, watching her walk away without ever turning back.

It went on like this for a semester.

Then came December. The early morning mist lingered longer, and with Christmas approaching, Anne began carrying a small satchel filled with cards. Once, Vinod saw her hand one to the driver with a smile. Another day, to a classmate.

He wondered if she would give him one. He wondered what he would say if she did.

But the final week before holidays arrived, and nothing changed. The glances remained, warm but brief. The silence stretched between them like the road itself.

On the last day before the break, the bus was nearly empty. Most students had left early. Vinod sat closer to the front than usual. Anne stepped in, eyes scanning the seats—and paused, ever so slightly, when she saw him. Their eyes met. This time, she didn't look away immediately. There was a flicker of hesitation—then she walked past him and took her usual seat.

Vinod turned around once, just once, and saw her looking out the window. The Bible on her lap was open, and tucked inside was a small red envelope. For a moment, he thought she might turn and give it to him.

But she didn’t.

At Kariavattom, she stood up, adjusted her frock, and stepped off the bus. She paused on the pavement, looked up at the sky, then—perhaps sensing his gaze—turned her head slightly.

Their eyes met again. This time, she smiled fully. A beautiful, radiant smile that lit up her whole face. Then she walked away. Vinod sat frozen, heart pounding. He wanted to run after her, to say something, anything. But his legs refused to move.

The holidays came and went. In January, Anne never boarded the bus again. Rumors floated—an internship in Bangalore, a transfer, perhaps even a break from studies.

Vinod never saw her again. Years later, he would sometimes pass the Senate Hall stop and glance at the waiting crowd, half-hoping for a glimpse of a girl in a pastel frock with a Bible in her hand. And in those moments, he'd remember a winter morning, a fleeting smile, and a love that never found its voice.