It had taken three buses, two teacher headcounts, and one wrong turn to get there, but when the students finally arrived at the retreat camp nestled just outside the city, the tension of school life began to melt into the humid, pine-scented air.
The camp was built around a dried-up lakebed that had once been beautiful, the kind of place that probably made promises in brochures but gave silence instead. Tents were arranged in uneven circles. A thin wire of fairy lights blinked across bamboo poles.
Aarav Mehta stepped off the bus last.
He wasn't particularly fond of school trips. They were loud, disorganized, and filled with students who pretended to like each other for photos. But when he saw Suhani standing near a tree, her sketchpad under her arm and her eyes turned upward toward the blueing sky, he knew this trip might be different.
Kabir had already made friends with the instructors, learning their names and cracking jokes like he had lived there for years.
"You're in my tent," Kabir called to Aarav. "Try not to murder me in my sleep."
"No promises," Aarav replied dryly.
---
By late afternoon, they'd trekked up a hill, nearly died during team-building exercises, and eaten overcooked dal with undercooked rice.
When the sun began to set, a bonfire was lit in the center of the camp.
Most of the students gathered around, excited by the prospect of a night without curfews, with snacks, secrets, and laughter. Someone brought a guitar. Someone else passed around instant coffee in tin cups. The teachers sat further away, tired but relaxed.
Aarav, Suhani, and Kabir sat together at the far side of the circle, away from the main crowd. It was quieter there. More real.
Suhani wrapped a shawl around her knees and held a sketch she'd drawn during the hike—a dead tree surrounded by wildflowers.
Kabir poked at the fire with a stick, unusually quiet.
Aarav just stared at the flames, watching how they moved like thoughts: uncontrolled, beautiful, dangerous.
"What are you thinking about?" Suhani asked him.
He shrugged. "Fire. Stories. Memory."
"That's vague even for you."
He smirked, but didn't elaborate.
---
After an hour, the guitar made its way around the circle. Some sang, some told jokes, some tried to confess crushes in the haze of warmth and freedom.
Then came the part everyone dreaded and secretly longed for.
The "share something personal" round.
The instructors had asked everyone to come prepared with one story, memory, or confession.
Most told silly things. Embarrassing childhood moments. Fights with siblings. Secret talents.
And then Kabir stood up.
He hadn't planned to speak. Aarav knew that much.
But something in the flickering firelight made him rise anyway.
He stood there, tall and casual—but his voice trembled, just barely.
"So… everyone thinks I'm confident. Loud. Charismatic. I know that."
A few chuckled. He smiled too.
"But… what if I told you I don't feel that way inside? Like, ever."
Silence.
He looked down.
"I spend so much time performing—being the funny guy, the leader, the one who fixes things—that I don't even know if there's anything left underneath. I come home, and it's like… the show ends. And I just sit there. Empty."
Suhani's hand tightened around her shawl.
Aarav's chest felt oddly tight.
Kabir continued. "I love you all, honestly. But sometimes, I wish someone would just… see me. Not the actor. Not the role. Just the mess behind it."
He laughed then, but it was hollow.
"That's it. That's my big dramatic monologue. Peace out."
He sat back down, clearly trying not to look at Aarav or Suhani.
No applause. Just understanding.
And that was better.
---
The fire burned lower. The stars blinked above, quiet and infinite.
Then, Suhani stood.
Aarav didn't expect it.
She was private. Not shy, but intentional.
She looked around the group. Her voice was soft but clear.
"I don't like silence," she said. "It's… complicated."
People turned toward her. The noise faded.
"Back in Kolkata," she continued, "I was part of this poetry club. We used to meet in cafés, basements, rooftops. I'd write things and read them out loud, and for a while, it felt like breathing."
She paused.
"And then, my poetry teacher—the one who encouraged me the most—started messaging me late at night. Compliments became questions. Then pressure. Then threats."
A hush fell over the circle.
"I told the school. I told my parents. Nothing changed."
She looked directly at the fire.
"One night, I swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills."
A soft gasp rippled through the crowd.
Aarav didn't breathe.
Suhani's voice didn't shake.
"I woke up in a hospital. My mother wouldn't look me in the eye. I had to leave the club. The school. The city."
She smiled bitterly.
"And that's how I landed here, in a classroom where I knew no one, staring out windows like the past wouldn't follow."
Silence held like breath.
"But it did. And maybe it always will."
She looked up then. Straight at Aarav.
"But some people… make the silence softer."
Then she sat.
And the world kept turning.
---
No one spoke for a while.
The bonfire cracked. The stars blinked. A breeze rustled through the trees.
And Aarav realized something.
He wasn't the only one who had built walls.
He wasn't the only one who had drowned quietly.
He just hadn't known how to look closely enough before.
---
Later, after the fire had died and most had gone to their tents, Aarav, Kabir, and Suhani remained.
No words. Just the sound of the earth cooling.
Kabir finally whispered, "That was… brave."
Suhani nodded. "So was yours."
They looked at Aarav, expecting something.
But he didn't speak.
Not yet.
Instead, he pulled out his notebook.
Opened to a blank page.
And started writing.
---
The next morning, Aarav tore the page from his notebook and placed it in Suhani's palm.
She unfolded it carefully.
It read:
> "We build masks from pain
stitch them with charm or silence
but sometimes, beneath the quiet sky
someone sees the real face
and doesn't flinch."
She read it once.
Then again.
And then—quietly—she reached out and touched his hand.
He didn't pull away.
Kabir watched them from the path nearby, pretending to be absorbed in his breakfast packet.
But he smiled.
Not the perfect smile he showed the world.
The real one.
---
On the bus ride back, Aarav sat between them, head against the window, watching the trees pass in blurred greens.
And he wrote one final line:
> *"I used to fear that being seen meant being broken.
But maybe, being seen… is what puts you back together."*