The other night, our conversation drifted into beliefs — the kind that make people fight and poets write.
He said it so casually, like it was no big deal: "God doesn't exist."
I raised my eyebrows, half-offended, half-ready to argue.
"Oh yeah? You can't just say that. Just because we can't see something doesn't mean it's not there. We didn't see space until someone discovered it, but it was always there. We can't see the wind, but we can feel it. So why can't you believe in God?"
He smirked — that annoying, confident smirk. "Fine. If it rains tomorrow, I'll start believing in God."
The next day was Sports Day.
And yes, it rained. Of course it rained.
But rewind a little — the night before, he had been teasing me about being vegan.
"Why don't you go fully vegan?" he said.
I groaned dramatically. "Excuse me? I've already stopped dairy for you. I even use vegan skincare now. And you still want me to ditch paneer?"
He chuckled. "Just eat tofu then."
"I don't even like tofu! It's made of soya, and I hate soya — it's like chewing on sadness."
He laughed again, softer this time. "Fine. I'll cook something for you. Then we'll see if you still hate it."
That line — that stupidly gentle line — stuck with me longer than it should've.
He didn't mean it like a promise, but it felt like one anyway.
And the next day, he actually did try to cook something. It didn't go well. He didn't even let me taste it.
"It's not good," he muttered, looking everywhere but at me.
Then, just like it had been listening to us, the sky decided to pour. Softly at first, like a secret between us and the clouds. Everyone panicked, whispering about Sports Day being cancelled. But the rain didn't last — it only came to prove a point.
He looked at me then, half-smiling.
"See? God probably thinks he's showing off now. Next time I want something, I'll just make a bet that I'll start believing in him. Then — boom — he'll do everything I ask."
He said it jokingly, but something about the way his laughter melted into silence made me pause. Because sometimes, I think the rain doesn't really fall from the sky. It falls from the tiny storms people leave inside you.
When the sun came back out, the ground was wet and glistening, like the world had been polished clean.
We lined up for the march past, and that's when my sash decided to betray me — slipping off again and again like it had a personal grudge.
Nayan, of course, stood nearby laughing like it was a live comedy show. "Fix your sash, Miss Champion!" she teased.
"Shut up," I hissed, trying to pin it for the fifth time. But honestly, I was laughing too. It was chaos.
Yet somehow, everyone's eyes kept finding me. Like I was glowing or something. I didn't know why. Was it because of Akaay? Maybe. Maybe not. But for once, I didn't mind being seen. I'd earned that moment.
My mom had come to watch me and my brother's race. I'd even asked her to bring my phone, "just in case."
Shree showed up with her dad, waving from the stands. The air buzzed with laughter, the sound of sneakers on wet ground, and that strange mix of nerves and excitement that always floats before a race.
And then I saw him.
Akaay.
Standing under a tree, looking… different. Nervous, maybe.
I walked up to him. "What are you doing here?"
He looked up, hesitant. "It's almost my turn for the speech."
Before I could reply, a shout broke through the noise. Kavya — in full rebellion mode — was arguing with our PT sir. Apparently, he'd canceled the girls' race.
I ran closer, heart pounding. "What's happening?"
"She wants to run," Akaay said quietly, "even if she loses."
And that was Kavya for you. Fire and stubbornness rolled into one.
Eventually, she did run — because no one could stop her. I tried to ask what happened, even held her hand for a second, but she brushed me off and stormed away toward her best friend, the one who somehow always got things done.
"Go and check her" Akaay said nervously, but I couldn't move a bit.
Within minutes, he'd convinced Sirk to let our race stay on.
Somewhere in between that chaos, I'd given my phone to Akaay — he was the only one with pockets, and honestly, I didn't have anything to hide except maybe… him.
But Vayu didn't agree. "Why'd you give him your phone?" he asked, sounding like a disappointed elder brother.
"What's the issue?" I shrugged.
"Did you tell him your password too?"
"No."
"Then fine. But don't trust that guy too much. He'll do anything with it if he wants to."
I rolled my eyes. "Relax. It's just a phone."
But deep down, I knew it wasn't just that.
Later, Vayu and Akaay disappeared together — clicking pictures, laughing like they had no idea I was about to race. I watched them from a distance. A small part of me wished he'd stay, wished he'd see me run. But I didn't say anything.
When my turn came, the track felt longer than usual. My legs felt heavier. My mind louder.
What if I trip? What if I fall?
And then I saw her.
My mother.
Standing by the field, her smile soft and proud. Her eyes were shining like she already believed in me.
Everything around me blurred — the crowd, the noise, the whispers, even him.
All I could see was her.
And in that heartbeat, I knew why I had to run.
This time, it wasn't for a boy.
It was for someone who truly deserved it.