Ink and Ivory

The classroom buzzed softly with the low murmur of voices, the occasional scrape of chairs, and the faint ticking of the wall clock that seemed to echo louder during slow afternoons. Outside the window, the sky was clear—a pale shade of blue tinged with the orange of late-day sun. But Callista barely noticed any of it.

She sat by the window, her STEM workbook lying untouched on her desk, a pencil idle between her fingers. Her classmates were busy with equations and diagrams, but she was somewhere else entirely—drifting through memory.

In her lap, she held a folded handkerchief, worn soft from time but still neatly kept. Her eyes lingered on it, distant and thoughtful, like it held the answer to something she still couldn't figure out. It was plain—white, with a simple blue thread embroidered along the edge. Nothing special to the world. But to Callista, it carried a moment she never forgot.

It was a year ago, in the park. A quiet, ordinary day, but her heart had been anything but calm. She remembered sitting alone on that bench, eyes red, tears refusing to stop no matter how much she tried to hide them. She had thought no one was watching.

But he was.

A boy—her age, maybe even a classmate she never really noticed before—had approached her. Not with questions. Not with pity. Just a soft look, a hesitant step forward, and then... this handkerchief, offered without a word.

It had surprised her. Not the gesture, but the silence that came with it—kind, unintrusive, as if he knew she didn't want to talk, only to be seen.

Now, in the classroom, as the afternoon light filtered through the glass and painted soft shadows on her desk, Callista held that same handkerchief gently in her hands. Her thumbs brushed its edge again and again, the motion grounding her in a memory that never seemed to fade.

She wondered if he remembered. If he even knew what that moment meant to her.

The teacher's voice cut through her thoughts, calling for attention. Callista blinked and slowly looked up, tucking the handkerchief back into the side pocket of her bag, like a secret folded between pages.

She wasn't crying now—but even a year later, that quiet kindness still sat with her.

Even so, Callista's thoughts continued to drift toward the boy who, years ago, had handed her the handkerchief. He was the same age as her then—a stranger with a quiet gaze and an unexpected kindness. She remembered his name now.

Dos.

Such a beautiful name.

Callista reached for her binder and picked up her pen. She had the sudden urge to write something—for Dos. She didn't fully understand it, but in all the years her heart had carried pain and sorrow, she never let it consume her. Instead, she found something else—something that helped her cope.

Writing.

At first, her words were scattered and raw—phrases formed in the midst of her hurt. But over time, they grew deeper, more honest. Each line began to carry weight, meaning, and pieces of her soul.

And whenever she thought of Dos, it was as if her hand moved on its own—writing poems that always, somehow, found their way back to him.

Where Are You Now, Dos?

I never wished, nor asked for you

But still, you came—out of the blue

You offered a handkerchief so kind

To wipe the tears I left behind

My vision blurred from all the cries

But even then, you caught my eyes

Not 'cause you looked cute that day

But 'cause of the kindness you chose to display

You never forced me to take your gift

You simply waited—silent, swift

No pressure, no demand, just care

That gentle act stayed with me there

You said one day we'd meet again

So I returned, through sun and rain

Back to the place where we first met

I waited long, my heart upset

But you, you never came around

No echo, whisper—not a sound

Where are you now, Dos, my friend?

Was that our start... or was that the end?

I waited for you, Dos... but you never came.

Where are you now? I want to return the handkerchief you gave me. I want to thank you for your kindness. I hoped—truly hoped—you would come back the next day, to that same part of the park where you found me in tears. But sadly... you never showed up.

The memory brought a quiet sadness to Callista's chest, a gentle ache that hadn't quite faded with time. And yet, despite it all, she didn't know why—but somewhere in her heart, hope continued to live. A hope that, one day, their paths would cross again.

Callista snapped back to reality, jolted from the depths of her thoughts when her seatmate gave her a firm tap on the arm and gestured urgently toward their Physics teacher.

There he was—arms crossed, one brow raised, eyes locked straight on her.

Callista swallowed hard. She hadn't realized how far she'd drifted off. Apparently, the teacher had been calling her name, and she hadn't even heard.

"Calli, you're one of my most promising students. Bright, capable, and hardworking—but that doesn't give you a free pass to ignore me when I'm standing here, teaching," the teacher said sharply, his voice cutting through the silence of the class. "Just because you're my favorite doesn't mean you're exempt from the rules. Now, get your bag and leave the room. Since you're clearly uninterested, there's no reason for you to stay."

Callista opened her mouth to speak, but the teacher raised a hand.

"No more words from you, Calli. You know how I run this class. I'm strict, and I expect everyone to follow the rules. You broke one—now leave."

Lowering her head, Callista quietly gathered her things, slipping her binder and pen into her bag. She slung it over her shoulder and gave a slight bow toward her teacher before softly murmuring an apology.

Then, without another word, she stepped out of the room and gently shut the door behind her.

As soon as the hallway's silence embraced her, she let out a long sigh and lightly slapped her forehead.

"Stupid, Callista. You got yourself kicked out. So embarrassing…" she muttered under her breath, scolding herself as she began walking down the long, empty hallway, her footsteps echoing softly against the floor.

As Callista walked down the long hallway, still simmering in her embarrassment, another realization hit her—her phone wasn't in her hand.

She frowned, suddenly unsure if she had left it on her desk or just misplaced it in her bag. Without stopping, she began rummaging through her things, eyes flicking down into the open zipper as her hand moved through notebooks, pens, and the soft fabric of the handkerchief.

Focused on the search and not where she was going—

Bang!

She collided into something—no, someone.

It was like walking straight into a wall. Solid, unmoving. The impact almost knocked her off balance, and she stumbled back, heart leaping to her throat.

But before she could fall, a firm hand caught her around the waist, steadying her.

"Damn, you okay?" the voice asked—low, smooth, almost effortless.

The sound of it sent a strange warmth crawling up her spine.

Callista blinked in surprise and looked up, lips parting slightly as her gaze landed on the person in front of her.

What the heck. Who even is this angel standing right in front of me?

He had tousled hair that caught the hallway light just right, eyes that looked like they saw more than they should, and a face so effortlessly handsome and mesmerising—it made her forget her embarrassment for a second.

Callista stared, wide-eyed, completely at a loss for words.

Because somehow, despite the surprise and confusion, all she could think was:

Please tell me this isn't just some random stranger I'll never see again.