She Said, "I Am Looking for Zoology Notes"

I was halfway through my third cup of coffee in the university library when I noticed her. She stood near the biology section, flipping through pages like she was in a rush, eyes scanning the titles with growing frustration.

Her face was familiar—classmate, maybe. Long black braid, round glasses, dressed in a soft blue shalwar kameez. She glanced in my direction briefly, then walked over.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice gentle but hurried. “Are you from Section B?”

I looked up. “Yeah, I am. Why?”

She smiled awkwardly. “I’m looking for zoology notes. Someone said you had the best ones.”

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. Not because I didn’t have the notes—but because she’d just spoken to me, and I couldn’t believe it.

“I do,” I finally said, trying to sound normal. “Want to sit?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

I pulled out my folder and flipped through the labeled pages. “Animal Kingdom, Classification, Physiology—what exactly do you need?”

She laughed nervously. “All of it, actually. I’ve been sick and missed two weeks of lectures.”

“No problem,” I said. “I can share scanned copies. Or we can study together if that’s easier.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You’d do that?”

I shrugged. “Sure. I mean, if you don’t mind my messy handwriting.”

She grinned. “Messy is better than nothing.”

That was the first time I saw her really smile. It was soft, unguarded, the kind that lingers in your memory long after it’s gone.

We spent the next hour going through diagrams, definitions, and lists of phyla. She took notes quickly, asked smart questions, and laughed whenever I made a biology joke that wasn’t even that funny.

After we finished, she stood and tucked her notebook under her arm.

“Thank you,” she said. “Really. I’m Zara, by the way.”

“I know,” I said without thinking. Then quickly added, “I mean—I’ve seen you in class.”

She smiled again. “And you are?”

“Adnan.”

“Well, Adnan,” she said as she turned to leave, “you just saved my zoology grade.”

Over the next few days, we kept bumping into each other. In the corridor. Near the water cooler. Even once outside the canteen, where she waved and offered half her fries without asking.

“You’re becoming hard to avoid,” I teased.

“Maybe you’re just easy to find,” she replied.

We began studying together often—mostly zoology, sometimes random subjects. She liked asking questions that weren’t in the syllabus, like why zebras had stripes or why bats sleep upside down.

I liked answering. Or trying.

One afternoon, while labeling parts of a frog’s anatomy, I noticed she was staring at me.

“What?” I asked, half-laughing.

She shook her head. “You actually enjoy this stuff.”

“It’s biology,” I said. “It’s life. How can you not?”

She rolled her eyes. “You sound like our professor.”

I leaned in. “And you sound like someone who’s falling in love with zoology.”

She laughed, looking away. “Don’t push it.”

But the blush in her cheeks said otherwise.

Soon, studying wasn’t just about chapters. It was about staying longer after sessions ended. About borrowing books we didn’t need just to sit together. About asking, “Have you eaten?” before asking, “Ready for the next topic?”

One day, I brought her a small notebook, wrapped in brown paper.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Your own zoology notes. Rewritten. Neater than mine.”

She opened it slowly, flipping through pages filled with diagrams, colored highlights, and little sticky notes that said things like “Remember this for MCQ!” or “You got this!”

Zara didn’t say anything at first. Then she looked at me with quiet eyes and said, “No one’s ever done something like this for me.”

I smiled. “Well, maybe no one knew how much you deserved it.”

That day, she stayed longer. We didn’t study. We just talked. About dreams, fears, how she wanted to become a wildlife biologist and travel. How she was scared her parents wouldn’t approve.

“I just want to matter,” she whispered.

“You already do,” I said.

That moment changed everything.

Our study sessions turned into strolls. Our notes turned into shared playlists. She’d say, “Make sure you bring your zoology notes,” and I’d know it meant, “I want to see you.”

One evening, she messaged me: “You free?”

I replied, “Always. Zoology emergency?”

She wrote back: “No. Just wanted to see you.”

When we met, she looked nervous. She held a small chocolate bar in her hand.

“For you,” she said. “For all your help. And for… making things better.”

I took it. “You make things better too.”

That night, under a quiet campus sky, we didn’t talk about frogs, birds, or mammals.

We talked about us.

And we decided not to call it love yet—but something close.

Zara never needed my notes again after that semester.

But she still asked.

“Adnan,” she’d say with a smile, “I’m looking for zoology notes.”

And I’d always reply, “Come sit. Let’s look together.”


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Have you ever started falling for someone through shared study sessions or unexpected academic help? Sometimes love begins with something as simple as a question. Tell us—what moment made you realize it wasn’t just about the notes anymore?

Note:
This story was created with the assistance of AI (ChatGPT), then manually edited for originality, accuracy, and alignment with Vocal Media’s guidelines.