Evening had settled like dust — slowly, silently, and without permission.
Vihaan sat on the edge of his bed, the same way he always did when the day left him emptier than it found him.
The room around him was dim, lit only by the lazy orange glow leaking through the curtain.
No fan. No sound. Just the ticking of a wall clock that felt like it was mocking him for existing.
He stared at the ceiling for a long time.
Not thinking. Not dreaming. Just… being stuck in himself.
But the more he sat still, the more his thoughts began to wander.
Backwards.
Towards a time he didn't let himself remember often.
---
The moment his mind touched the memory, the pain came.
Sudden.
Sharp.
Like a nail behind his eye, being pushed in slowly.
He gasped, clutching the side of his head with one hand, eyes squeezing shut as his body jerked forward.
It felt like something was cracking from inside his skull.
He stood up, trying to balance himself… but his knees buckled.
He collapsed.
Hard.
His shoulder hit the floor first, then his elbow, then his breath caught in his throat.
The world tilted.
His heart thudded.
And then…
Darkness.
---
Flashback.
A different classroom.
A different Vihaan.
He was younger, skin clearer, eyes brighter.
But right now, his head was down on the desk — breathing shallow, hands slightly shaking.
"Miss! Vihaan's having one of those headaches again!" someone yelled.
And then… footsteps. Quick, yet calm.
A girl knelt beside his bench.
Pallavi.
She didn't speak immediately.
She didn't freak out.
She just… placed her hand gently on his head and whispered, "I'm here."
Just those two words.
Like a soft blanket on a shivering body.
She stayed by his side — while others gathered around, bringing water, asking if he could stand.
But she never left.
She rubbed his back, kept talking softly — random, sweet things — things like how the clouds outside looked like animals, how she hated maths, how someone in class had a crush on their English teacher.
She spoke… to keep his world from falling apart.
And that day, Vihaan had thought — if there's a definition of care, it's her hand on my head, right now.
She hadn't just stayed.
She'd seen him.
---
Present.
Vihaan's eyes blinked open.
The floor was cold beneath him.
The pain had dulled, but his chest felt tight — like something had been ripped from it and never put back.
He pushed himself up slowly, wincing.
The memory still throbbed louder than his pulse.
He dragged himself to the window. Opened it. Let the evening air hit his face.
The city lights blinked like dying stars. Distant. Unreachable.
And in the middle of that lonely silence, he whispered:
"She used to sit beside me like I mattered.
Now she doesn't even glance at me."
His voice was hoarse. Small.
But honest.
"Is it that easy to forget someone you once cared about?"
He leaned his head on the cold glass and closed his eyes.
His thoughts crawled back to school — to today.
---
He had seen her.
Pallavi.
After so long.
Same eyes. Same hair tucked behind her ear. Same quiet confidence in her walk.
But something was different now.
She didn't wave.
Didn't smile.
Didn't even stop.
Just passed by — like Vihaan had become a stranger carved out of the air.
She hadn't even noticed the way his hand flinched when their shoulders almost brushed.
He had waited. Hoped maybe she'd turn around, maybe her eyes would soften, maybe she'd remember.
But she didn't.
---
Later that night, Vihaan stood on the rooftop again.
The wind was sharp. It bit through his clothes, but he didn't move.
He looked up.
The stars didn't blink back.
"Do you remember her?" he asked the sky.
No answer.
He stared down at the city.
Billions of lights.
Millions of people.
And not one person looking for him.
"Why do we always love the ones who forget us the fastest?"
He laughed quietly. Bitterly.
Then his voice broke.
"I still love you, Pallavi."
It came out like a truth he'd buried too long.
"I loved you when you held my head like I was fragile.
I loved you when you yelled at me for skipping lunch.
I loved you when you called me dumb and still stayed beside me.
I love you now… even though you don't know who I've become."
His hands were trembling.
He looked at the sky again, eyes wet.
"But I won't say it.
Because I know how it feels to matter one day and mean nothing the next."
He stepped back from the edge.
---
Later, in his notebook, he wrote:
> "I think the worst kind of pain isn't when they leave you...
it's when they're still around — but act like you were never real to begin with."
---
He tore the page out.
Folded it.
Placed it under his pillow.
Because even if she never reads it…
He needed to say it somewhere.
Somehow.