It began in 2019—back when I was a younger version of myself, standing at the edge of a new beginning.
I had just transferred from one school to another. The day itself isn’t something I remember clearly, but the feeling is. For three days, I didn’t go. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was the quiet anxiety of walking into a place where no one knew me.
On the third day, I finally did.
I reached early—too early. The classroom was empty, and I sat alone on a bench, waiting. Wondering.
Then someone walked up to me. He introduced himself with an ease I didn’t have. He was funny, effortless. I was so caught up in the moment that I forgot to ask his name. All I remembered was that his favourite cricketer was Virat Kohli. So, for three days, I called him Virat—and he never corrected me.
The name stayed. So did the friendship.
There was supposed to be someone else—Aisha. Our mothers knew each other, and somehow that was enough to make us friends before we even spoke. But in those first few days, she was nowhere to be seen.
And then, one morning, everything changed.
I was sitting in the same place when a girl walked in, calling for her sister to hurry up. And then I saw her—Nisha.
There are moments in life that don’t ask for your permission. They just happen. That was one of them. My heart skipped, my thoughts paused, and for the first time, I felt something I didn’t understand.
Maybe people call it love.
Back then, I didn’t.
Time passed quietly. I barely spoke to her that year. Just a few words here and there—but somehow, even those small moments felt like something more.
Then came the Class Representative elections. I don’t know why I was chosen. Maybe the teacher saw something I didn’t. I was up against Abhinav. The boys supported me, but the girls were more in number. None of them voted for me.
He won.
At the time, I told myself it didn’t matter. But somewhere, it did.
Soon after, the final exams approached. I remember standing at the bus stop, nervous, going over everything in my head. And then suddenly, everything stopped.
School was shut down.
At first, I was happy. I went home, threw my bag aside, and turned on the TV. I didn’t know then that this break would last much longer than expected.
The pandemic changed everything.
We left for our village. Fear was everywhere—silent, heavy. People prayed more, spoke less. We stayed isolated for days, unsure of what would come next.
When classes resumed, they were online.
And that’s when I saw her again.
Just a small face on a screen—but it was enough. I realized something I hadn’t before: her absence had left a space in me. And now that she was back, even like this, that space felt full again.
That’s when I understood.
I told myself that when school reopened, I would tell her.
But life doesn’t always move the way we plan.
When we returned, everything was different—masks, distance, silence between benches. I sat near the door. Beside me was Riya, her sister. Behind her was Nisha.
Behind me sat Vivek.
He wasn’t kind to her. One day, she asked me to switch seats with him. She didn’t switch with me herself—she wanted me there.
I didn’t hesitate.
Somehow, that small decision felt important.
Later, when her sister asked for the seat back, Nisha refused. It turned into a small argument—one that ended with me sitting beside Nisha.
I think she already knew.
Around that time, we found out that someone else—Tanish—liked her too. Virat figured it out, of course. He always did. But she ignored him completely, as if he didn’t exist.
And that scared me.
Not because of him—but because I realized what could happen if I said something and it went wrong. I didn’t want to lose what we had, even if it was undefined.
So I stayed quiet.
Days passed, filled with small moments that meant more than they should have. A dance practice where she pulled my cheeks so hard they turned red. A Christmas where she became my Secret Santa.
She gave me a frame, with a handmade card inside. I didn’t open it at school. I waited.
At home, I carefully took it apart, only to realize the card was made from something unexpected—cardboard from a bra box. I didn’t say anything. I just smiled and kept it safe.
Or at least, I tried to.
The second wave came, and we were locked inside our homes again. This time, things were different. We talked less. The group chats faded. Life slowly pulled everyone in different directions.
Sometimes, late at night, I would type messages I never had the courage to send.
“I like you.”
And then I would delete them before morning.
She would ask me what I had written.
I always said, “Nothing important.”
Eventually, even those conversations stopped.
When school reopened again, things felt smaller. Fewer students. Fewer voices. But somehow, I ended up sitting beside her again.
This time, it stayed that way.
We placed a bag between us at first—a small boundary. But she often forgot. Our shoulders would touch. Sometimes our legs would brush against each other. At first, it made me nervous.
Then, it became normal.
She would skip her breaks to help me understand lessons. I would skip mine just to sit there, talk, or sing quietly. She was the first person who ever told me I could sing.
Those days felt endless.
But they weren’t.
One day, the announcement came. Our school would no longer continue for higher classes. We would all have to go our separate ways.
And just like that, it ended.
I moved to a new school with Virat. Life became busy again. Messages turned into occasional replies. Then into silence.
The frame she gave me broke one day while shifting furniture.
I held the pieces in my hands for a long time.
And in that moment, I understood something I hadn’t before:
Sometimes, the things we care about the most don’t stay. And when they break beyond repair, the only thing left to do… is to let them go.
Discription: the story didn't ended hear it have 2 more parts