There are moments when the world turns, not like a wheel, but like a knife.
Moments when everything feels like it's balancing on a sentence—something overheard, half-understood, and never un-heard again.
For Aarav Mehta, that moment arrived on a Tuesday.
---
It began like any other school day. The sun was indifferent. The students were loud. Morning assembly dragged. Aarav, having felt a rare sense of peace since the play, moved through the corridors with a quiet calm that surprised even him.
Teachers had started greeting him differently.
"You're the one who wrote the play, right?"
"Your piece in the magazine was impressive."
"You have a voice, Aarav. Keep using it."
He didn't know how to respond. He'd never been seen before. Not like this. Not as someone who had something worth hearing.
He wanted to tell Suhani. Or Kabir.
But Suhani wasn't in class that morning.
---
"Stomach bug," someone said.
"Probably just tired," another added.
He didn't think much of it at first.
Until lunch.
---
He was walking back from the library, a book on existentialism tucked under his arm, when he passed the girls' washroom near the art block.
He hadn't meant to eavesdrop. The door was open slightly. Voices spilled into the hallway like wind slipping through a crack.
"—I'm telling you, it's weird."
"That's not proof."
"Oh, come on. You think she just transferred here randomly? She was asked to leave her last school."
"You think it's true? What she did?"
"Who knows. But I heard she got too close to one of her teachers. That's why she left Kolkata."
"She's always writing those poems. Like she's tragic or something."
"Yeah. It's kind of attention-seeking, don't you think?"
Laughter.
Short. Cruel.
Aarav stopped walking.
For a second, his heart didn't beat. Or maybe it beat too loudly to be heard.
He didn't wait to hear more.
He turned and walked away.
Fast.
---
That evening, he didn't text Suhani.
He didn't reply to Kabir's message either:
Where are you, bro? Suhani said she's skipping art club. You okay?
Aarav stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
Then he turned off his phone.
And went to bed early.
---
The next morning, Suhani wasn't at school again.
---
By Thursday, people had stopped asking.
By Friday, Aarav had stopped looking.
---
But he hadn't stopped thinking.
He kept remembering the bonfire.
The poem he'd written for her.
The way her hand had rested in his.
And now—those voices.
Those words.
Aarav knew rumors were cheap. But doubt was expensive.
He hated himself for it.
But he couldn't silence the thought:
Did she lie to me?
---
The worst part was not knowing how to feel.
He wanted to believe her. He did believe her. But belief, once cracked, doesn't repair cleanly.
He stopped sitting near Kabir at lunch.
Avoided the courtyard where Suhani had once drawn sunflowers into her notebook.
Avoided mirrors too.
Because the boy who looked back wasn't someone he liked very much.
---
Over the weekend, he opened his notebook and wrote:
> "The mind is a courtroom where truth is never called to the stand.
Only whispers. Only shadows.
I don't want to be a judge.
I want to be forgiven."
Then he closed it.
Didn't write again for three days.
---
On Monday, the art teacher made an announcement at the start of class.
"Suhani Ray will be on medical leave for the week. Please submit any art club materials to me."
Aarav didn't ask why.
But something cracked in his chest.
Not loud.
Not sudden.
But deep.
---
After school, Kabir cornered him at the cycle stand.
"You've been a ghost," he said.
Aarav didn't reply.
Kabir folded his arms. "You're pulling back again. Why?"
"I'm tired."
"No, you're scared."
Aarav finally looked at him. "You don't know what I'm thinking."
Kabir narrowed his eyes. "Then say it. Or I'll start guessing."
Aarav's voice was flat. "I heard something. About Suhani."
Kabir blinked. "And?"
"It... made me think."
"Think what?"
"That maybe I never really knew her."
Kabir's expression turned from confusion to disbelief to disappointment—all in one breath.
"You really think she's like that?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
The silence between them felt final.
Kabir shook his head.
"God, Aarav. I thought you were the one person who got it. Who didn't believe people were just headlines and gossip."
"I never asked her for the truth. I don't know what's real."
Kabir stepped back. "Then maybe you never really knew yourself either."
He left without waiting for a reply.
---
That night, Aarav sat in the dark.
The fan spun overhead. The city breathed in muffled horns and distant sirens.
And he thought about all the things he hadn't said.
To Kabir.
To Suhani.
To himself.
His chest ached.
And this time, it wasn't poetic.
It was just pain.
---
On Wednesday, a letter arrived.
Not through phone or text.
But as a folded sheet of paper, slipped into his locker with no name.
A familiar handwriting.
Neat. Pressed. Sincere.
Aarav unfolded it with trembling hands.
It read:
---
Dear Aarav,
I didn't disappear to punish you.
I disappeared because disappearing is something I do.
When the noise gets too loud.
When the weight grows too heavy.
When the silence starts to suffocate instead of soothe.
I heard what they were saying.
I always do.
It's funny—how people decide who you are without ever looking at you.
But you… you did look.
That night.
Under the stars.
You saw something in me.
And that saved me.
So don't let the rumors un-see me.
Don't let them take that away.
I don't need you to defend me.
I just want you to remember me.
As I was.
Sitting beside a bonfire.
Saying, "This is what it means to stay."
If you still want to understand me—
Meet me.
Friday.
6 PM.
Platform 2.
No explanations.
No apologies.
Just honesty.
— Suhani
---
Aarav read the letter three times.
Then sat down on the nearest bench.
For the first time in days, he cried.
No metaphors.
No resistance.
Just tears.
And then, he ran.