Vansh woke up with the weight of the night still heavy on him, the open comic book resting quietly by his side. He had read until sleep stole him away, and now the fading dreams and stubborn pain still clung to his chest. Around him, the house buzzed with morning rush; parents packing, his elder brother — always sharper, always ahead — preparing for school. Vansh dressed himself quietly, slipped through the morning chaos, and hurried out when his bus honked, tossing a half-hearted goodbye to a family too busy to notice.
In another part of the morning, Aanya basked under a soft sunrise, her parents' cheerful greetings filling the warm kitchen. Their dog, tail wagging excitedly, danced around her feet as they laughed and planned the day ahead. Her mother, a homemaker; her father, an entrepreneur who built dreams into businesses; together they made mornings feel light. Her father drove her to school, dropping her off with a bright smile, and Aanya, sunshine in human form, greeted every student she passed, lighting up faces one after another.
When Vansh arrived at school, no one turned to greet him. No smiles, no nods — just blank stares that slid past him like he wasn't even there. Srujan and Dhanush noticed him from afar; Srujan made a move to walk toward him, but Dhanush held him back with a firm tug at his collar.
"How long are we going to leave him like this?" Srujan muttered bitterly, anger threading through his words. Dhanush hesitated, his voice low, "Maybe it's easier this way... Let's just see what Aanya does to him." A scoff from Srujan, a laugh from Dhanush, and then, like the tide, classmates pulled them away with greetings, leaving Vansh alone in the swell.
Inside the classroom, Vansh clutched a soft piece of white cloth hidden in his bag, something to clean his bench with if needed. But today the bench was neat, untouched, and he slid the cloth back with a soft sigh, thinking, "Maybe tomorrow..."
As he approached his seat, he caught the eyes of classmates — disgust, fear, discomfort — burning into his skin, but when he dared glance at Aanya, she was different.
"Yeah. Maybe tomorrow for sure", Vansh thought to himself truthfully.
She pushed through the others, beaming as she marched up to him and chirped, "Good morning!" When he stayed silent, she repeated louder, "I said GOOD MORNING!" and all heads turned toward them.
Vansh, knowing she wouldn't back down, grumbled a reluctant, "Good morning." Aanya's face lit up like a festival, uncaring of the stares drilling into them from every corner.
Leaning closer, she said mischievously, "You know, they say you're annoying. That you suck up people's energy. But honestly... you've never annoyed me." Vansh's hands tightened on his bag. He wished he could vanish, but then she leaned in closer, threatening to shriek again if he didn't answer.
Forced, Vansh muttered, "Yeah, I'm annoying. You should change your seat." Aanya tilted her head, smiled, and said softly, "Your eyes tell me otherwise. They tell me to stay."
Frustrated, Vansh stood up as if to walk out, but the teacher shoved him lightly back into his seat with a frown. The class chuckled. Aanya's soft laughter reached him through the noise, like a hand brushing against a bruised heart. As the lesson ended, the teacher announced that final exams were two weeks away. Half the class groaned, half cheered, all buzzing with the realization that their days together were numbered. Aanya, sitting nearby, glanced at Vansh again, her thoughts swirling: Memories... don't let them slip away.
That evening, Vansh found himself at the old park near his house, sitting quietly on the swing set, still in his school uniform. His bus ride home had ended, but he hadn't gone home — his heart pulled him here instead, to a place of faded laughter and broken echoes. He swung slowly, staring at the ground, when a voice broke into his loneliness.
"What're you doing here?"
It was Aanya. He didn't even need to look to know. "None of your business," he said gruffly, but she only smiled and sat on the swing next to him, like she belonged there.
"Why do you come here?" she asked, her voice lighter than the breeze. Vansh hesitated; the words caught like thorns in his throat.
"I used to play here during holidays… but not anymore," he admitted.
"Why not?" she asked again, simple and pure. "Things change. Doesn't feel right anymore. Plus, exams are coming." Aanya laughed, the sound chasing the gloom away, and she started sharing silly stories about classmates — the clumsy ones, the forgetful ones, the loud ones. Vansh found himself smiling despite everything.
After a moment, his voice softened. "Why do you talk to me... even though everyone warns you not to?" Earlier that day, Vansh had overheard the threats — stay away from him, or be treated like him. Aanya tilted her head, pretending to think, before answering, "Maybe... I'm interested in you."
Vansh's heart flipped like a page in his favourite comic, flashing back to scene 143 — a confession he never thought would bleed into real life. Yet he stayed calm, the words too heavy to spill.
She continued, smiling gently, "Whatever people say, you should let it in from one ear and out from the other. Don't let them steal your happiness." Vansh froze. He had once said those exact words, right here, months ago — the same swings, the same golden light. Back then, he was the one giving hope. Now, he was the one needing it.
"Why do you avoid your friends then?" she asked softly. "Once this moment's gone, you'll never get it back. My mom says so." Vansh looked down, the chains around his heart tightening. "Maybe you're just afraid," she whispered. Anger sparked through him and he snapped, "It's none of your business!" She didn't flinch. Calmly, she said, "Maybe. But you made it my business when you first reached out, didn't you?"
Vansh was unsure, he was puzzled with her words. None of them were making any kind sense, yet he listened as if it meant something to him. He looked up to her, saw her eyes but couldn't say anything.
Standing up, she dusted her skirt and said brightly, "I'm not giving up on you. Not until the holidays." Vansh watched her walk away, her figure fading into the twilight. Something inside him twisted painfully, something long locked away. Before he could stop himself, he called after her.
"It's not that I don't want friends. I like it… but..."
The rest of the words never came out. Aanya turned, smiled wide enough to shatter the dusk, and said, "It's fine. You're going to be my friend — no matter what!"
Hidden behind the trees, Srujan and Dhanush had heard it all. Srujan, serious for once, said quietly, "You heard that? He still wants us." Dhanush looked between him and Vansh, and slowly, reluctantly, nodded. "Maybe you're right…"
As they were about to part ways, Srujan suddenly groaned, dragging his feet like a stubborn kid. "I wanted to play swing, man! We just stood there!" Dhanush rolled his eyes, hands in his pockets, "You had enough fun today, drama queen. Let it go already."
But Srujan didn't budge, his pout real. He turned to leave, only for Dhanush to yank him back by the collar with a smirk. "Come on then, baby swing boy."
They messed around for a few more minutes, the rusted swing chains creaking gently as Srujan sat on one in fake silence, refusing to speak. Dhanush teased him once more before dropping beside him, the sky now flushed with orange and gold. The laughter was softer now, less about jokes, more about something returning — something they hadn't realized they missed.
Meanwhile, Vansh returned home. No one greeted him at the door, no voices echoed through the house — just stillness, like always. But something in him felt lighter. He thought of the swing, of Aanya's voice. For the first time in weeks, it didn't feel like nothing was waiting. It felt like maybe... someone was.
Outside, Aanya's silhouette lingered in his mind — arms crossed, smile wide, warmth in her words like fire in winter. Behind her, two shadows — Srujan, Dhanush — slowly catching up. Maybe each of them had their own path, their own rhythm and pain and story. But sometimes, those paths crossed again, in the right places, at the right time.
As the swing creaked one last time and the sun dipped below the horizon, it was clear — childhood might not last forever, but some moments do. And maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something new.