Friday arrived with an unexpected chill. A storm had brewed the night before, and the skies still bore its remnants — gray clouds rolled like bruises across the sky. The school bus halted at its usual stop, but Amrita wasn't there.
Tushar leaned out the window. Nothing. He waited a little longer than usual before getting off alone. Maybe she was late. Maybe the rain had delayed her.
But by noon, he'd asked every teacher and checked the school office twice. No sign of Amrita.
"Maybe she's sick," someone said.
"She'll be back Monday," another chimed.
Tushar spent the weekend restless. He stared at his phone, at the friendship bracelet she'd once made him from golden thread and green beads. A tiny crack had formed in his sense of calm.
When Monday came, she was there — quiet, pale, her uniform slightly wrinkled. A thin red scar ran diagonally across her forearm. She winced as she picked up her bag.
He didn't ask anything during class. He just watched. At lunch, they walked to their usual neem tree.
"I'm fine," she said before he could ask.
"No, you're not."
Amrita hesitated. Then, in a whisper smaller than the wind: "He got angry again."
Tushar felt his fists clench, his throat dry. What could he do? He was only thirteen. The world was still too big for him to fix.
So he said, "Let's not talk. Let's just sit."
And they did.
They sat under the tree, knees touching, eyes on the sky. No promises, no plans. Just presence. Just a shared silence that held more warmth than words ever could.
And that day, without realizing it, they mended the crack in the glass — not by fixing it, but by being there so it didn't widen.
Moral: Sometimes, just being there is the loudest form of love.