There were some days in Aarav's life that passed like fog—featureless, numb, and quiet. And then, there were days like this one.
Where every word seemed sharper. Every glance, heavier. Where silence wasn't absence—it was pressure.
The Literary Fest was exactly a week away, and their classroom had transformed into something between a war room and an underfunded drama club.
Charts on walls. Props stacked in corners. Groups of students with rising tempers and sagging eyes.
Suhani sat cross-legged on the floor, cutting paper lanterns with military precision. Kabir was giving exaggerated acting lessons to two juniors who clearly regretted signing up.
And Aarav? He was in charge of logistics. The guy who everyone came to when they needed "something sorted."
"Do we have enough extension cords?"
"Who's collecting the sound system?"
"Why is the lighting team using the drama budget?"
He answered it all with a strange kind of focus. No emotion, just execution.
But inside?
A storm was growing.
That morning, Suhani had arrived fifteen minutes late.
Eyes red. Mouth tight. Voice flatter than usual.
Kabir had asked what was wrong.
She'd waved it off. "Didn't sleep well."
But Aarav knew the difference between fatigue and pain.
And she was hurting.
He wanted to ask. But something held him back.
Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was the quiet realization that even though they were close, she hadn't chosen to tell him.
She had brushed past him without a word.
That hurt more than it should have.
At lunch, the three sat together, but it wasn't the same.
Kabir filled the air with chatter. Jokes about the juniors, exaggerated stories about past fests, ridiculous theories about which teacher secretly watched reality shows.
Suhani laughed politely. Aarav didn't.
Then, Suhani excused herself to help the art team.
And Kabir turned to Aarav.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look it."
"I'm just tired."
Kabir paused, then said, "She's not avoiding you, you know."
"I didn't say she was."
"You didn't have to."
Aarav said nothing. He looked out the window, at the pale blue sky that looked too empty.
"Maybe I'm just… tired of trying," he said at last.
Kabir blinked. "Trying what?"
"To connect. To keep up. To not mess things up."
"Who said you were messing things up?"
"I don't know. Everyone. No one. Myself."
Kabir leaned back. "You're overthinking again."
"Maybe that's all I ever do."
Later, while collecting prop boxes from the auditorium storage room, Aarav found Suhani there—alone.
Sitting on a folded carpet, hands in her lap.
He stood silently in the doorway.
She looked up.
And for a moment, neither spoke.
Then she said, "He called again last night."
"Who?"
"My old teacher."
Aarav's hands clenched.
"What did he say?"
"He didn't speak. Just... silence. Breathing."
A chill ran down Aarav's spine.
"You should report him."
"I did. They said there wasn't enough proof. The number's unregistered. Probably a burner."
Aarav stepped inside, lowering himself beside her.
"He's still trying to control you."
"I know."
"You don't have to be strong about this."
She didn't cry.
But she looked close.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"For the first time in weeks, I feel like I'm drowning again."
Aarav didn't say anything wise.
He just placed his notebook in her lap.
She opened it, confused.
On the page, written in his usual small, sharp handwriting:
"You are not weak because you remember.
You are not broken because you flinch.
You are brave because you stay."
Suhani stared at the words.
Then looked at him.
"I don't deserve you," she said.
He shook his head. "I don't think we deserve each other. I think… we found each other."
She smiled—small, quiet.
But real.
That night, Kabir called Aarav.
"Hey. Need you at school. Now."
"What? Why?"
"Come to the terrace."
Twenty minutes later, Aarav climbed the school's side ladder to the rooftop, confused and breathless.
Kabir stood there, a lighter in hand, and a box beside him.
"What is this?"
Kabir gestured to the box.
It was full of papers. Old notebooks. Scribbled pages. Doodles. Ripped reports.
"My past," Kabir said. "Every version of me I've tried to be."
He picked up a torn notebook. "This one's from when I thought I'd become a lawyer like my dad. Read through five constitutional law books before I realized I hated every word."
He picked another. "This one's from when I pretended to be the guy who had it all together."
Aarav watched silently.
Kabir lit a match.
And dropped it into the box.
Flames rose, hungry and orange.
"You're burning them?"
"No. I'm freeing them."
Aarav stepped back slightly from the heat.
Kabir looked at him. "We all carry too much. Expectations. Regrets. Roles. Labels. I needed to let go."
Aarav stared into the fire.
Then pulled something from his pocket.
A folded photo.
Of him and Arjun.
The only copy he had kept.
He looked at it for a long time.
Then, without a word, he placed it gently into the flames.
It curled. Blackened. Disappeared.
Kabir said nothing.
Aarav whispered, "I still miss him."
"You always will."
"But maybe I can stop living like I'm missing too."
The fire crackled.
The wind carried the ashes into the quiet sky.
The next day, Suhani performed her final piece at the rehearsal.
A poem. This time, different.
Not about pain.
But about healing.
"I was not born from tragedy.
I survived it.
And survival isn't weakness.
It's war in soft breath."
The teachers applauded.
Even the principal, often stone-faced, smiled.
Kabir cheered from the back.
And Aarav?
He stood there, silent.
Heart loud.
Later that evening, the three of them sat near the football field.
No lights. No crowd. Just dusk and grass and quiet.
Suhani leaned against Aarav's shoulder.
Kabir lay flat on his back, hands under his head.
"You know what I realized?" Kabir said.
"What?" Suhani asked.
"That for the first time in years, I'm not performing."
"Same," Aarav muttered.
"I'm still performing," Suhani said with a wry smile. "But now the stage is mine."
They all laughed.
Soft.
Free.
That night, Aarav wrote:
*"Sometimes, healing doesn't come in noise.
Sometimes, it comes in fire and silence.
And the warmth left behind."*