Tanushri didn't speak at first.
She simply walked.
Her footsteps echoed softly in the corridor, crisp and even, like she was deliberately controlling each sound she made.
Aryan followed half a step behind, his own footsteps lighter, more hesitant.
It wasn't that he feared her.
It was that he couldn't read her today.
She walked past the notice board, past the staircase landing where seniors usually hung out, past the indoor plant that some teacher forgot to water for a week.
The school felt too bright, too loud, too alive around them — like the world didn't know something inside him had quietly cracked two days ago.
When they reached the empty reading corner beside the library, she finally stopped.
The sunlight through the grilled window fell across her face, highlighting her expression — tight, controlled, but soft around the edges. A mix of irritation and relief.
She crossed her arms.
"Okay. Start talking."
Aryan blinked. "…About what?"
"Don't act dumb," she snapped.
Then, softer —
"Aryan… you disappeared."
Her voice didn't shake, but the air around her did.
Aryan looked away. "I was just… tired."
"Tired?" She stepped closer. "You don't miss school. You don't skip homework. You don't disappear without warning. Even when you're sick, you still show up for attendance and then faint afterwards like an idiot."
Aryan avoided her eyes.
"I told Sagar not to tell you," he muttered.
"That's exactly the problem," she said sharply.
Her voice wasn't angry.
It was scared pretending to be angry.
He didn't know how to answer that.
So silence took the space between them — thick and uncomfortable.
She exhaled, letting her arms drop.
"Look at me."
He didn't.
"Aryan."
Her voice softened in a way that made his chest tighten.
He finally looked up.
Her eyes held him still — firm, steady, the way someone looks when they're counting the fractures in glass.
"Why… didn't you tell anyone?" she asked.
He froze.
Because I don't want anyone to see—
Because something inside me is wrong—
Because I don't want anyone to be scared—
Because I don't understand it myself—
None of those answers came.
"…I didn't want to worry you," he finally said.
She actually laughed — a quiet, disbelieving sound.
"Idiot," she whispered.
"You worrying me by disappearing is worse than you telling me the truth."
Aryan didn't flinch, but something small inside him trembled.
Tanushri caught it.
Her expression softened even more.
"Aryan," she said gently, "whatever is happening… you don't have to handle it alone."
He looked away again.
"I'm fine."
"No."
She stepped right in front of him.
"You're not."
Her voice didn't rise.
Her tone didn't break.
But the certainty in her voice pierced deeper than shouting ever could.
He tightened his jaw.
The headache — the one that had faded in class — returned.
Not painfully.
Just enough to make his heartbeat throb in his ears.
She must've seen the slight wince.
She took a quiet breath and lowered her tone.
"…I'm not asking you to tell me everything. But tell me something."
He said nothing.
She waited.
He still said nothing.
A flicker of frustration crossed her face.
"You trust Sagar," she said. "You trust Aditi. Why not me?"
That hit him harder than she knew.
"I trust you," he said quietly.
"Then why act like I'm the one person you can't tell the truth to?"
The question hung heavy.
Aryan didn't answer — not because he didn't want to, but because he didn't know how.
She sighed, brushing her hair back.
"Fine," she muttered. "If you won't talk, then just listen."
He looked up slightly.
She leaned her back against the wall beside him and spoke quietly.
"You don't owe me explanations. I'm not your parent. I'm not your teacher. I'm not even… someone with authority."
She paused.
"But I care. More than you think."
Aryan's breath caught.
"And I get it," she continued.
"You don't like being seen as weak. You don't like people fussing over you. You don't like attention."
He swallowed.
"But disappearing and pretending nothing happened is worse," she said softly.
"It makes me feel like I'm not… someone you can count on."
He finally turned toward her.
Her eyes didn't move away.
A strange ache spread in his chest — guilt, maybe. Or fear. Or both.
She gave a small, sad smile.
"You're not alone, Aryan. Even if you act like you are."
He didn't speak.
Because if he did… something in his voice would have cracked.
---
They stayed like that for a moment — quiet, unsaid things floating between them.
The shutters of the library rattled in a mild breeze. Some younger kids ran past laughing. A teacher scolded someone in the far hallway.
Normal life continued.
But here… everything felt fragile.
Tanushri exhaled and looked at him again.
"You know… when I didn't see you for two days, I kept thinking—"
She stopped.
"Thinking what?" Aryan asked.
She hesitated.
"That something happened to you," she said finally.
"And I wouldn't know. Because you don't tell me anything."
Aryan's fingers curled.
If she knew what actually happened —
if she saw what he became —
if she saw the version of him that even he feared—
"Hiding things doesn't protect me," she said quietly.
"It isolates me."
That sentence hit too close.
He looked down at the floor.
"…Sorry."
She blinked.
"Aryan apologizing? Wow."
He didn't smile, but his expression shifted a little — an involuntary twitch of his eyebrows that she had learned to read.
The tiniest version of his "don't tease me" face.
Her shoulders relaxed.
"Idiot," she whispered again, but softer than before.
---
Their moment was cut by a faint ringing — not a phone, but the school bell signaling the end of break.
Students poured out of classrooms like a wave in uniform.
Tanushri glanced at them, then back at Aryan.
"Come on," she said, nudging him lightly with her elbow. "Walk back with me."
He hesitated.
"Please," she added quietly.
That small plea did something to him.
He nodded.
They walked side by side down the corridor.
She asked about assignments.
He answered in short sentences.
She teased him about his handwriting.
He rolled his eyes.
She laughed — genuinely, freely — the way she only laughed with a few people.
His shoulders loosened a little.
But as they reached the staircase landing… something changed.
Aryan suddenly felt watched.
Not in a dangerous way.
Not in a supernatural way.
Just… observed.
As though someone had been noticing him more carefully than they should.
He looked around.
Nothing obvious.
Just teachers.
Students.
A group of DHARA members passing by with clipboards.
But one of them — a tall man with calm eyes — paused for a second as he walked past.
Tanushri didn't notice.
Aryan didn't understand why that moment felt heavy.
The man simply nodded politely and kept walking.
Aryan felt his fingertips go cold for a second.
He blinked.
Tanushri was already a step ahead, waving at him to keep up.
The strange feeling dissolved.
He shook it off and followed her.
---
Before leaving him at his class door, she said quietly:
"Aryan… next time something happens… tell me. Even a little."
He didn't answer immediately.
But he looked at her — really looked —
at her concern, her frustration, her warmth, her stubborn loyalty.
"…I'll try," he said.
Her eyes softened.
"Good. Trying is enough."
She started to walk away.
Then paused, turned around, and added:
"And Aryan?"
He looked up.
"You're not as alone as you think you are."
Then she left — her footsteps fading into the corridor.
Aryan stood at the doorway long after she was gone.
Not because he was confused.
But because something in her words settled deep inside him…
in a place he didn't know was aching.