Some people come and go like seasons. But Khushi? She was more like gravity — always there, holding me down when I felt like floating away.
Middle school hit us like a storm. Everyone was changing. Boys started talking about bikes, gaming consoles, and—more embarrassingly—girls. I didn’t understand the hype. Every time they whispered names and giggled, I just sat there, pretending to be busy sharpening my pencil.
But Khushi? She stayed the same. She still called me out for not doing homework, still dragged me to tuition classes, and still slapped me with her notebook when I made a silly joke in class.
“Tu kabhi serious hoga?” she’d say.
“Main toh hamesha serious hota hoon,” I’d reply, grinning.
She’d roll her eyes. But I knew she liked that I could make her laugh.
There were moments when things felt... different, though.
Like the time she fell asleep during a group study at her place. It was just the two of us. Her head slowly dropped onto my shoulder, and my heart decided it was a good time to start a drum solo in my chest.
I didn’t move for a full hour. Not because I was scared to wake her — but because it felt like the world had stopped moving. Just her breathing softly beside me. Just me, frozen in that moment.
I didn’t tell her how I felt.
Because I didn’t know what I felt.
I remember the first time someone asked me, “Tu Khushi ke saath hai kya?”
It was Rohan, this over-curious idiot from our class. We were walking back home when he just blurted it out.
I laughed. “Nahi be, hum bas friends hain.”
But something in my voice cracked.
Friends. Haan, dosti toh thi. Par kuch toh aur bhi tha, na?
Khushi never acted like anything was different. She was focused — school topper, debate winner, science fair champion. But she always had time for me.
Late-night calls about exam stress. Lunch breaks where she shared her paratha even if I forgot mine. Secret codes during boring classes. And when I once got bullied by seniors for wearing “girly” shoes my mom bought from the wrong section — she stood in front of them like a lioness.
“Problem kya hai? Shoes pe focus hai ya marks pe?”
They backed off.
That day, I didn’t just feel protected — I felt proud.
One rainy afternoon, we got stuck at school. Her parents were late, mine too. Everyone else had left.
We sat near the library window, watching the rain blur the world outside.
“Khushi,” I said quietly, “tu kabhi jaayegi toh nahi na?”
She looked at me, surprised. “Kahan jaaungi main?”
I shrugged. “Bas aise hi. Kabhi socha, agar tu door chali gayi toh?”
She paused, then softly said, “Main door chali bhi gayi na… toh tujhe bhoolungi nahi. You’re the only person who knows me better than I know myself.”
Those words. I didn’t know then, but I’d hold onto them when things got rough later.
She was always there — in my every win, every loss, every moment of confusion and chaos. Khushi wasn’t just a girl I grew up with.
She was the rhythm behind my every day.
I still hadn’t told her anything.
But I was starting to feel something I couldn’t ignore anymore.
[End of Chapter 2]