Harish didn't talk much that day.
At first, I thought it was the usual — his introversion kicking in when the room got too loud, too fast. But this was different. He laughed when someone cracked a joke, but the sound didn't reach his eyes. He stared a little too long at the windows, as if trying to escape through them. And every time our teacher raised her voice, I saw his shoulders tense like he was preparing for impact.
I remembered now.
This was the day he found out.
About his father. The debts. The lies. The phone call during the last period — the one that left him hollow and pacing the corridors while we all wondered what happened.
But he hadn't gotten that call yet.
Not this time.
"Wanna walk home today?" I asked him at the gate.
He looked at me for a moment, then gave a half-hearted shrug. "Yeah. Sure."
We walked mostly in silence, dodging potholes, stepping around street vendors, and ignoring the buzz of scooters and cycle bells. The air smelled of sweat and dust, familiar and strangely comforting.
He kicked a pebble forward every few steps.
"You okay?" I finally asked.
"Fine," he said automatically.
I didn't push. I just kept walking beside him.
After two blocks, he asked, "Do you think people can really change?"
I glanced at him. "You mean like suddenly become better people?"
"Not suddenly. Just… if it's even possible. Or if we're all just pretending."
I could hear the edge in his voice — something raw and bitter underneath.
"Change takes time," I said. "And pain. But yeah. I think it's possible."
He didn't respond.
Instead, he stopped in front of the tea shop near his lane and stared at the old wooden bench out front.
"I used to sit there with Appa every Sunday," he said, voice low. "He'd tell stories. Wild stuff. Dragons, thieves, hidden kingdoms." He smiled, but it cracked around the edges. "I believed every word."
I swallowed. "You loved him."
He nodded slowly. "I still do. That's the worst part."
The words hung between us like fog — thick, heavy, impossible to look through.
I followed him up to his gate, unsure if I should stay.
Then, his phone buzzed.
He checked it, and I saw the flicker of something behind his eyes. Recognition. Fear.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, voice suddenly distant.
But as he turned, I touched his shoulder.
"If you need me… for anything. I'm here."
He didn't answer.
But he didn't push me away either.
That night, I sat by my window, unable to sleep.
Everything was unraveling again — slowly, quietly — but now I could see the threads.
This time, I wasn't just trying to fix the past.
I was learning to carry it differently.
With care. With presence.
With the understanding that sometimes, the best thing you can do… is stay.