The final bell rang sharply, echoing through the wide corridors and bouncing off polished walls. Students spilled out of classrooms like a river breaking through its banks, voices colliding in laughter, shouts, and hurried footsteps. The schoolyard, usually serene by late afternoon, was now a whirl of color—uniforms, sandals, and backpacks weaving a chaotic tapestry.
Ji-Ho paused, scanning the row of buses lined up in neat, gleaming rows like slumbering giants ready to trundle toward distant villages.
Each bus bore a distinct sign with the names of faraway stops, and for a moment, Ji-Ho froze. He didn't know which one was his. he don't know what to do or which bus he want to go to.
then here comes something unexpected happens!
"Hey!" a familiar voice cut through the clamor, light and musical. Ji-Ho turned, and there she was—Thanu, jogging lightly toward him, her braid bouncing over one shoulder, the sunlight catching strands of hair that seemed to shimmer like threads of gold.
"You can't take that one," she said, her eyes bright with amusement. "Ours comes in an hour. We'll have to wait here."
Ji-Ho's cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink. "Ah… I… I didn't know," he stammered, stepping aside, feeling suddenly clumsy and out of place.
She gestured to the middle courtyard, a vast open space framed by the soft glow of late afternoon sun and bordered by towering, ivy-draped walls. The air smelled faintly of chalk dust and warm tiles, a subtle mix of school and sunlight. Students from Ji-Ho's route were already settling in, their chatter filling the courtyard with a cozy hum.
The school is filled with trees and green mat above the school to reduce the sunlight and also graden was there in the school with lot of colourful flowers.
Ji-Ho followed, carrying his cricket bat like a shield against his own nerves, and chose a seat at the edge. The space was wide enough for a dozen games, but in that moment, it felt intimate—like the world had shrunk to just him and her.
There were eight students from Ji-Ho's class who went along the same route as Ji-Ho. What susprising is four of them are same village as Ji-Ho that he didn't know.
Just as he began to relax, a sudden flurry of movement caught his eye. Ganga, Thanu's energetic friend, dashed toward the principal's office, a thick mathematics textbook clutched under her arm. Her sandals slapped against the floor with hurried urgency, echoing in the spacious courtyard.
Moments later, the principal emerged from the office, papers in hand, his expression stern enough to still a hummingbird. "All right, everyone from this group," he called, voice firm yet calm. "I have some problems for you to solve while you wait. Practice is important."
The courtyard erupted in groans and sighs. Ji-Ho unfolded the paper with trepidation, scanning numbers and symbols that now seemed to wriggle and twist before his eyes.
"Wait… what?!" he whispered, staring as if the sums were part of an elaborate trap.
Thanu glanced at him over her notebook. Her laughter—soft, clear, and unrestrained—cut through the tension like sunlight through clouds. Ji-Ho froze, caught mid-frown, realizing that his very confusion was the source of her amusement.
"Do you need help?" she asked, tilting her head with a playful curiosity. "Or are you planning to stare at it until it solves itself?"
Ji-Ho opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, then opened it again—utterly defeated by the simplest conversation. Scribbles, cross-outs, and sighs filled the corner of his paper as Thanu's gentle giggles accompanied each failed attempt.
For the next hour, equations and letters danced mockingly on the page, while students scribbled, whispered, and occasionally groaned. Ji-Ho stole glances at Thanu—her brow furrowed in concentration, her hand moving deftly over the page, yet her eyes occasionally flicked up to catch his awkward attempts. Her laugh, gentle and light, was a small sun breaking through the storm of his panic.
When the bus finally rumbled into view, its engine a deep, throaty promise of home, Ji-Ho had learned two things: mathematics could be merciless, and Thanu's laughter was merciful in a way that made even the smallest failures feel golden.
He climbed aboard, sitting beside her, and dared a glance at her face, catching her smile in the fleeting sunlight. His heart thumped a little faster, a rhythm that seemed to sync with the bus's steady hum.