The exam days continued to roll. Viona slowly began to get used to going through everything alone—sitting alone in class, studying alone in a corner of the library, and passing every second in her own calm yet lonely rhythm. She no longer talked much, even Lina's jokes were only answered with a thin, almost invisible smile. However, behind that small smile, there was still an empty space in her heart—a space that had not been replaced, a space that had once been filled with hope that was now just a shadow. 
Dedi still behaved as usual—not moving away openly, but also not approaching as before. Since that incident, he had kept his distance in a polite and painless way. No harsh words, no harsh sarcasm—only silence that slowly grew into distance. And Viona knew that silence was not without meaning; it was a form of disappointment that was kept tightly, which perhaps would never be expressed directly. 
That afternoon, when the school building began to quiet down and the sky turned reddish orange, Viona sat alone on a bench in the school garden. The place was still the same as the previous days, but it always felt different. He opened a notebook from his bag, not to take notes, but to pour out his heart. Behind the clean, blank page, his hand began to write slowly:
"Sorry, Dedi. I can't like anyone yet. Not because you're not good enough or don't deserve to be loved, but because my heart is still attached to someone who doesn't even look back at me. Maybe this is my fault—still hoping for something that's long over. But I can't start a new story if the shadow of the past is still so strong in my mind." 
The afternoon wind gently swept the sheet of paper, as if wanting to read the writing that was never meant to be shared. Viona knew that she had no intention of giving the letter to anyone. She just wanted to confess her heart—even if only on a blank page that never answered. 
She realized that Dewa would not return. But for some reason, there was a part of her that still chose to wait—even though she herself probably knew that what she was waiting for would never really come. 
Since moving up to a higher level, Viona and Dewa were no longer on the same shift. Viona came in the morning, while Dewa came in the afternoon. They only occasionally crossed paths in the school hallway or at the gate, like two worlds that only intersected for a moment and then parted again. There was no greeting, even the gaze felt strange. But for Viona, just seeing Dewa from a distance was enough to make her chest tight, and her mind was filled with unanswered questions again.
One afternoon, after the exams were over, Viona saw Dewa sitting with Riska on a bench near the parking lot. They laughed freely, looking intimate and comfortable, as if the world was on their side. Meanwhile, Viona stood a few meters away from them, silent in her steps that suddenly stopped. She could have turned around, but her feet were rooted to the spot. 
There was a strange sensation in her chest. Not jealousy. Not anger. But an old wound that reopened, like a door that had never really closed. Especially when she saw Dewa with one of her close friends—Riska. 
With bated breath, Viona continued her steps. She walked past them without turning around. But at the last second, her gaze met Dewa's eyes—a glance, a quick glance, but enough to make her heart beat irregularly. 
No smile. No greeting. Just a blank stare that could not be interpreted, but its depth was deeply embedded in Viona's mind. 
She quickened her steps, as if she wanted to run away from the feeling that was still the same: waiting for someone who no longer lived. 
That night, in the quiet room, Viona opened her notes again. With a slightly trembling hand, she wrote:
"Our story may be over. But somehow, a part of me remains in the past—the time when you still wanted to be by my side. I know you're happy now, and I don't want to ruin it. I just want to be honest... that I can't really leave yet."
The days after the exam went by with a different rhythm. Viona began to find a way to fill the empty space in her heart. Not by hoping for something that was lost, but by moving forward.
She returned to spend her afternoons at the dance studio she had left. At first it was awkward, but slowly her body became one with the movements again. The steps that had once felt foreign now became a language that freed her. Every swing of her hand, every stomp of her foot, became Viona's way of expressing things that she had not had the chance to say. She did not dance to appear in front of others—she danced to heal. 
The sound of traditional musical instruments, the rustle of her shawl in the air, and her reflection in the studio's large mirror—all of these brought a calmness that she could not find anywhere else. The studio became her breathing space, a place where she could be herself without having to pretend to be strong. 
Outside of her dance practice schedule, Viona also returned to her regular music studio. She chose the piano, like before. Her fingers were not as agile as before, but she was in no hurry. She played note by note with a feeling that was starting to recover, making music a new language for the silence within her. 
Her days were now busy, but they felt more focused. Morning at school, afternoon at the studio, evening with light assignments and books that she touched again. Lina once said to her, "You're different now, Vi. More... alive." And Viona just smiled, because she knew those words were true. 
Dewa still occasionally appeared in her mind, like a faint shadow behind the moving train window. But now, she no longer chased that shadow. She no longer waited to be greeted, or seen. Because she began to realize—she too was valuable, even if no one validated her. 
That night, after finishing piano practice, Viona wrote again in her notes:
"I'm no longer waiting to be seen. Now I'm learning to see myself. I keep myself busy not to avoid it, but because I realize that there are so many beautiful things that I've missed just because I looked back too often." 
She closed her book, closed her eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath. Maybe her heart hadn't fully healed. Maybe her wounds hadn't fully healed. But now she knew that continuing to wallow in sadness would only distance her from all the beauty that she could still have. 
And that night, for the first time, she truly smiled—not to hide her wounds, but as a sign that she was on her way to truly healing.