[School bell ringing faintly in the distance.]
The bell rang.
Anaya didn't move.
The classroom had emptied quickly. Bags zipped, chairs scraped, laughter spilled into the corridors as the building exhaled the last class of the day. But here, in this small room that smelled faintly of dust and antiseptic, the world felt paused.
Pradeep stood beside her, arms crossed loosely, his gaze not on her, not exactly-just somewhere in the middle distance. Still calm. Still quiet. But the kind of quiet that carried weight, like the air between them was holding something fragile. Something neither of them had dared to touch yet.
She should've said thank you again.
Or sorry for panicking.
Or even something stupid like you're good at this... being there for people.
But the words didn't come. They hovered at the back of her throat like birds uncertain of flight.
So she just sat there, fingers curled loosely around the edge of the chair, eyes fixed on the half-open window. Outside, students rushed past, their voices like scattered leaves on wind-bright, chaotic, full of life. A river of movement she couldn't quite step into.
[Footsteps echoing in the hallway. Faint chatter. A burst of laughter.]
"You're thinking too loud," Pradeep said gently.
She turned to him, startled. "What?"
He tilted his head slightly. "I can hear it. The way your brain doesn't rest."
Anaya let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. A tiny laugh escaped her. "I'm not always overthinking."
He raised a single eyebrow.
She rolled her eyes. "Okay, fine. Maybe just... ninety percent of the time."
He gave a small nod, like he was granting her that number. But his face didn't shift much. Not the way it usually did when he was amused. No playful comeback. No subtle smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
And that's when she noticed it.
The way he glanced down, then to the side. The way his jaw clenched for half a second, like a flicker of something buried. The way his fingers tapped once against his thigh and then stopped, like they didn't know what to do with themselves.
He'd been quieter lately. Not obviously. Not to most people.
But Anaya always looked closely.
He still showed up, still helped with notes, still offered her the last piece of gum during break. But something about his presence had shifted. Like he was folding inward, piece by piece, and hoping no one noticed the edges curling.
She wanted to ask.
Are you okay?
Is something bothering you?
Do you want to talk?
But the words stayed trapped behind her ribs, afraid to push past the comfort of silence. Because asking might make him pull back further. Because she wasn't sure she had the right. Because-maybe he wouldn't answer.
So instead, she said, "You didn't have to wrap my ankle, you know."
His eyes met hers again. "I know."
"Then why did you?"
He shrugged, like the answer was obvious. "Because you were hurt."
[Soft ambient pause.]
There it was again. That disarming simplicity of his. No flourish. No drama. Just truth.
And somehow, it hurt more than comforted.
Because it reminded her how rare it was for someone to just... show up. Without needing a reason. Without expecting something back.
She looked down at her ankle. The bandage was neat, snug, like it belonged there. Like it was done by someone who cared enough to get it right.
He handed her her water bottle wordlessly.
[Plastic cap twisting. The clink of a bottle against wood.]
And just like that, the moment was folded away. Tucked into the quiet. Like it never happened.
"Ready to go?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yeah."
They walked out together, the hallway surprisingly empty now. Echoes of footsteps still lingered, and faint voices echoed from the field outside where juniors were already kicking a football around.
[Soccer ball thudding in the distance. Distant cheering.]
As they moved side by side, Anaya caught herself limping again. Not badly. Just enough for it to catch his attention.
She saw the glance. Brief, unreadable.
But he didn't say anything this time.
He just slowed his pace. Barely noticeable, but enough that they matched steps again.
And that's when she knew.
There were words she didn't say.
And there were words he didn't either.
But in between all that silence, something was being said.
In the way he slowed down.
In the way he didn't fill the silence.
In the way he didn't ask if she was okay, but stayed close enough that she could answer if she wanted to.
They stepped outside into the slanting light of late afternoon. The sun hit the courtyard bricks, making them glow amber-red. For a second, the light made her think of something else. Another courtyard. Another day. Another boy.
[Birds chirping. A breeze rustling leaves.]
Her chest ached, but in a soft way.
Not painful. Just... full.
She glanced at Pradeep again. He was walking with his hands in his pockets, eyes on the path ahead. Quiet. Observing. Always slightly apart, like he never quite stepped fully into the room.
But she felt him there. All the same.
As they passed the library, she hesitated. "Do you want to sit for a bit?"
He looked at her, then nodded once. "Sure."
They sat on the low wall near the garden. The scent of marigolds drifted lazily in the breeze.
Anaya sipped from her bottle. He didn't speak.
And somehow, that was okay.
She turned to him. "Did you ever get hurt a lot as a kid?"
He blinked at her, surprised. "What kind of question is that?"
"Just wondering," she said, a little too quickly. "You're good at first aid. Like... too good."
He chuckled under his breath. "Deepak was a disaster magnet. And... yeah, I got my share of bruises."
She waited, but he didn't elaborate.
So she didn't push.
But something had softened in his voice. And something in her chest loosened again.
She smiled faintly. "You should still carry lollipops."
He gave her a sideways look. "You're not going to let that go, are you?"
"Nope."
"I'll think about it," he said. "Maybe orange. For brave people who limp dramatically."
"I was being graceful."
"That's what you call it?"
"Selective gravity," she said, mock-serious.
And finally-finally-he smiled. Not wide. Not long. But real.
[Wind brushing through trees. A faint, shared silence.]
They sat a moment longer, neither moving.
Neither speaking.
But in that silence, a hundred words they hadn't said still hung in the air.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.
---
To be continued....