School ends the same way it always does—books half-closed, laughter echoing through the corridors, and that one bell that feels both freeing and too loud at the same time. We are all walking out together, the familiar group of four—me, Rayan, Arnav, and Aashi.
Arnav is holding his finger up dramatically. "Look at this, guys! I'm injured. A topper's hand is wounded in service of great knowledge."
I squint at it. There's a tiny scratch near his nail, barely visible. "You'll live," I say dryly.
Before I can blink, Aashi's already leaning closer. "Wait—oh no, how are you going to eat rice? It'll sting! And if salt gets in, you'll scream like last time!"
Arnav gives her a deadpan stare. "Thank you for your deep medical concern, Doctor Drama."
She rolls her eyes. "I'm serious!"
Rayan laughs softly beside me, shaking his head. "He can use a spoon, Aashi. Or maybe the topper can invent one with a scratch-proof handle."
Arnav smirks. "I could, but the school's budget can't afford my genius."
The whole group bursts into laughter. His savage tone is so casual, yet somehow warm; that's how Arnav is. His dark humour could burn a city, but his smile fixes everything right after.
I don't say it out loud, but I admire that balance in him. He's effortlessly confident—the kind of person who can win an argument with a single sentence.
Aashi still looks worried though, and that's when something flickers in my chest. She cares so much about the tiniest things when it comes to him. I look at them for a second longer than I should—her frowning, him teasing her—and I catch myself thinking, maybe this is something.
But it's not my business. Right?
We start walking toward the gate, the air heavy with the golden dust of late afternoon. My shoulder brushes Rayan's as we walk, and for some reason, I don't move away. He's talking about something random—a meme, maybe—but his voice is so calm, I barely notice what he's saying.
I realize I'm smiling again. That's dangerous.
As we walk home, I can't help smiling.
They keep bickering the entire way, her scolding, him laughing, the air around them bright and alive.
And somehow it makes me remember something—something from years ago.
Back then, Arnav was quieter. He used to scribble on the last page of his notebook instead of talking.
One afternoon, he handed Aashi (yes, that Aashi) a folded paper.
She opened it—inside was a simple line written in blue ink:
"I like you."
She froze. He looked terrified.
And she just said, "i 'm sorry... but No!"
For years, they barely talked.
But by Class 8, the group had re-formed—me, Rayan, Arnav, Aashi, everyone.
He never mentioned it again. Neither did she.
Yet there was always something there—like unfinished words that lived quietly between their jokes.
In my opinion they are match made in heaven...
We reach the turn where our ways split. Arnav and Aashi head toward the school stop, still bickering about whether salt or sugar is worse on a wound. Rayan and I split in different direction .
And for a moment, I think of something ridiculous—how tiny things matter. A small scratch, a silly argument, a teasing line. These are the things that build something bigger, something unspoken.
When I reach home, I drop my bag and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
Why do I feel this way?
I tell myself it's nothing. Just friendship. Just moments. Just the everyday rhythm of being young.
But when I remember how Rayan looked at me while laughing—how Arnav smiled at Aashi's fussing—something tightens in my chest.
Maybe love isn't a sudden fall. Maybe it's a quiet collection of little things we try too hard to ignore.
I exhale and whisper to myself,
"No. It's not love. I've felt this before… in class eight, in class nine… I always get over it."
But the reflection in the mirror doesn't believe me. And maybe, deep down, neither do I.
But Rayan is my "friend".
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