After the event ended, we went straight to the restaurant — the kind that smelled like butter naan, laughter, and tired feet.
The moment we reached, I dashed to the washroom, desperate to scrub off that disaster of a makeup my teacher had forced on me.
"Ma'am, who's even going to notice my makeup while dancing? Please don't—I have allergies!" I had pleaded earlier, practically begging.
But no. Nothing could stop her mission to turn me into an ugly duckling.
So there I was, scrubbing foundation like it was a crime scene, muttering curses under my breath.
When I came back, Mom and I sat on one side of the table, while Dad and my brother faced us on the other. The world outside was still buzzing about Sports Day — cheers, honks, chaos — but inside, everything felt oddly calm.
I scrolled through my phone, showing Mom the photos — the march past, the race, my friends mid-cheer, the blurry victory smiles.
She smiled softly, nodding, her eyes filled with that warm, quiet pride only mothers have.
And then — ping.
A message.
From him.
"Hello."
My breath caught.
My fingers froze mid-scroll.
For a second, it felt like the whole restaurant had gone silent just to mock my heartbeat.
I quickly deleted the message, my hands trembling so badly I almost dropped the phone.
Mom's voice snapped me back. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing!" I said too quickly, way too defensive. "It's just—they're asking for photos and all."
She gave me that look — the suspicious side-eye moms are basically born with. Then she just hummed, "Hmm," and went back to her food.
Though I swear her eyes lingered on me a second too long.
My throat tightened.
Because I knew exactly what I was doing — and how dangerous it was.
One wrong move, one glimpse of my screen, and everything would crumble.
My phone would be gone.
My school days? Over.
My parents' trust? Shattered.
No more morning tea smiles, no more small jokes, no more soft "beta" before bed.
And that tiny piece of freedom I still had?
It would vanish.
But still… I couldn't stop.
Because somewhere between fear and flutter, I knew —
I was risking it all.
For him.
When we reached home, the first thing I did — obviously — was talk to him.
I don't know why, but he seemed… desperate. Like he'd been waiting all day just for this.
The screen lit up.
"You're back?"
Yeah, I was.
And my heart immediately did that weird flutter-panic combo thing again.
Then came Mom's voice — slicing through the moment like a knife.
"What are you doing? Aren't you tired?"
Her tone — sharp, suspicious — made my stomach twist.
She was walking on the path I really didn't want her to walk on.
"Uh… just studying," I said, hoping it sounded casual.
"I know you're not," she replied, eyes narrowing. "Come upstairs. Right now."
I typed fast — "I'll talk to you later."
He replied with that judgy emoji. 🙄
Like— excuse me, sir?!
I'm literally risking my entire existence for this conversation.
If my mom even sees a notification, I'm finished. Expired. Gone.
I threw my phone aside, muttered something like, "Ugh, boys," and dragged myself upstairs.
The second my head hit the pillow, exhaustion swallowed me whole.
And before I knew it — I was asleep.
Not because I wanted to,
but because that day had drained every last drop of energy I had left.
When I woke up, sunlight was creeping through the curtains.
My eyes searched for one thing — his message.
But there wasn't any.
Instead, a school notification blinked on the screen.
"Winter break from next week."
And just like that, my chest tightened.
Because what if distance changes everything?
What if our chats fade away like my bond with Abhi once did?
What if he forgets me?
Gets bored? Moves on?
I stared at the message for too long,
and for the first time in days,
the silence felt heavier than the secret itself.