That night, I couldn't sleep at all. My mind kept replaying everything — Sultan standing up for me, the anger in his eyes, the way he didn't even hesitate to defend me, even if it got out of hand. Part of me felt so happy… someone had taken a stand for me. And yet, reality hit hard. Rehan… how could I even think about someone else when my heart belonged to him? And Ritika… how could I ever consider anyone Sultan-like, knowing my best friend loved him?
The next day, I dragged myself to school, exhausted from no sleep. I barely managed to stay awake and ended up dozing off in class. Around me, everyone was talking about the previous day's incident. Whispers, rumors, laughter — everyone seemed convinced that Sultan and I were in a relationship. I just listened quietly, my head resting on my arms, trying not to think too much.
Lavanya came over, concern written on her face. "What happened? You look like a zombie."
"Nothing," I said softly, changing the topic. Lavanya was strict about sleep and eating on time, so I didn't want her worrying. "How's Ritika?" I asked.
"She won't come today," Lavanya replied.
"Why?" I pressed.
"She said she's going somewhere," Lavanya said casually, but both of us knew something was off.
I tried to focus, but my eyes kept wandering. Sultan didn't come either, and I found myself looking for him every few minutes.
First period started. Our teacher entered, and just as she was about to take attendance, Sultan walked in. Right at that moment, my heart skipped a beat — the timing was impeccable. He quietly took his seat, and I couldn't help but notice him, sitting there like nothing had happened, yet everything had changed.
Then our teacher announced a seating change. She was making everyone sit boy-girl on the same bench. The class groaned, "Nooo!" but the teacher began moving desks anyway. My heart started racing — who would I sit with? As the benches were rearranged, my pulse quickened.
And then it happened. I was left with one empty seat beside me… and Sultan came and sat down.
My heart was pounding so fast, I could barely breathe. It felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of us.
After lunch, I didn't feel well at all. My head was heavy, my body weak, and having Sultan sit next to me didn't make it any easier — his concerned eyes kept finding mine. Over and over, he asked, "Are you okay?"
"I'm okay," I whispered each time, but the truth was I was far from okay.
The math teacher was late, so we had to take care of the classroom ourselves. I had no energy at all, barely able to lift my head. Sultan noticed immediately. He leaned over and whispered, "Rest, I'll handle it," then went to Lavanya and instructed her to manage while I took a moment.
My health continued to worsen, and Sultan couldn't bear to just watch. He came back, gently held my hand, and guided me straight to the principal's office. "She's not feeling well," he told Madam firmly.
Madam suggested I go home and call my mom, but my mom wasn't home. I explained, "The house keys are with my sister. I can manage alone."
Sultan didn't accept that. "Can I go with her and come back?" he asked, his voice calm but determined. Madam, seeing no other option — and knowing Sultan was a responsible, respected student — agreed.
He went to my sister's classroom, collected the keys, and then walked with me toward home.
I whispered a quiet, "Thank you," but he waved it off. "No need, Muskan. Anything for you."
He didn't let go of my hand the entire way. I was too weak to walk properly, so he carried my bag, my basket, everything I had. I felt a strange warmth in my chest — part gratitude, part something I didn't fully understand.
Finally, he dropped me at home and left only after making sure I was safe inside. I closed the door behind me, my body exhausted, but my mind buzzing with thoughts I couldn't stop.
I ended up sleeping all day — I guess my body decided that being dramatic about not sleeping the night before deserved a full 24-hour nap. Maybe I was trying to compete with Sultan's intensity or just practicing for a "sleep marathon," who knows?
Later, my phone rang. It was Lavanya, checking if I was okay.
"I'm good," I said, finally awake and feeling a bit better.
"After you left, Sultan also left the school," she said.
"Oh? Is he okay?" I asked, worried.
"Yeah," Lavanya replied casually. "He said he was feeling bored, so he left."
I shook my head, half smiling, half puzzled. "Okay…" and ended the conversation.
I felt the need to talk to Ritika, so I called her… three times. No answer. I even called Lavanya, asking her to reach out to Ritika, but still nothing. Finally, we decided to go to Ritika's house ourselves.
When we arrived, Lavanya asked bluntly, "Why weren't you replying? What happened?"
Ritika stayed quiet, avoiding our eyes. Then she looked directly at me and asked softly, "Do you… love Sultan?"
I froze. My heart thumped wildly. I didn't say anything. Lavanya quickly interjected, "No, she loves Rehan, not Sultan."
I nodded quickly, relieved she had said it for me, and whispered, "Yes," before wrapping Ritika in a tight hug.
It felt good to hold her, to know that some things — like trust and friendship — didn't need words, just the comfort of being there for each other.
We were going home after meeting Ritika.when I realized I wasn't a good friend to Ritika. She loved him — how could I come between them? And how could I betray Rehan, even though we weren't in a relationship? Still, I felt like a cheater. The guilt was killing me inside.
The next day at school, I decided to give the monitor badge back to the teacher. I told her I couldn't handle the class anymore. I knew that if I stayed, Sultan and I would grow closer — and Ritika wouldn't like that. Only monitors were allowed to sit together, so I was sure the teacher would give the badge to Ritika, since she and Lavanya were the second toppers among girls. Lavanya was already a monitor, so Ritika would get the chance next.
I did all this to bring them closer. But inside, something was dying. I didn't want to hurt Sultan either, but then I thought — why would he even care?
When I gave up the badge, everything went exactly the way I had expected. Sultan was shocked when the teacher announced it. She told me to leave the bench and asked Ritika to sit there instead. Ritika, too, looked surprised.
As I walked away from that bench, it didn't feel like I was just leaving a seat — it felt like I was leaving someone who made me feel important, someone who had fought for me in front of everyone. The feeling was indescribable… maybe it was pain.
Sultan was the dream boy for every girl. He was perfect — good in studies, thoughtful, charming, and so good-looking that every girl in class liked him. Everyone tried hard to talk to him. He was perfect. But I knew Ritika was better for him, not me.
Sultan seemed upset with me. He didn't talk; he just looked at me — with anger, and with love, both in his eyes. I loved that look. When our eyes met, it felt like there was nothing more beautiful in the world than that moment.
When the class was over, Ritika came to me, her voice full of anger.
"Why did you give the badge away?" she asked.
I didn't answer. My eyes went to Sultan — he was already looking at me. The moment our eyes met, he turned away and walked to the front of the class, standing there quietly. Within seconds, everyone fell silent — and that was rare, because our class was usually a total fish market.
Ritika spoke again, louder this time. "Answer me!"
I finally said, "I can't handle the class. You can do it better."
She frowned. "No, you were doing good."
I shook my head. "No, Ritika… I can't do it. Please, stop it now."
She sighed, then said "Okay," and went to manage the class.
They both stood there together, facing the students — Ritika and Sultan. I looked at them and thought how perfect they looked side by side. Maybe that's how it was meant to be.
But even as I tried to convince myself of that, my eyes found Sultan's again. We looked at each other, ignoring everyone else. It felt like our eyes were talking — saying all the things our hearts couldn't.
"You think this is fair?" Ritika shouted, her voice sharp. "You just gave it away like it didn't matter! Do you even care how it looks? Sultan… me… everything!"
"I… I couldn't handle it," I whispered, my heart pounding.
"Couldn't handle it?" she repeated, her anger flaring. "You think this is just about you? You don't see how your actions affect everyone else!"
"I didn't want to hurt anyone!" I tried to explain, but my voice sounded weak even to me.
"You didn't want to hurt anyone?!" she laughed bitterly. "What about Rehan? You let him think things that were never real! And Sultan — you act like you don't even notice how this looks!"
"I never told Rehan anything!" I whispered. "He… he doesn't even know that I—"
Ritika cut me off, pointing sharply. "Don't lie! You know exactly what you're doing. You're selfish, and you don't even see it!"
My chest tightened. I wanted to disappear. The whole classroom felt like it was closing in on me.
Just then, Lavanya stepped forward, her calm presence like a wall between us. She placed a gentle hand on Ritika's arm. "Ritika, that's enough! Stop yelling. This isn't helping anyone!"
Ritika jerked away, scowling, but didn't reply. With one last glare, she stormed out, muttering under her breath.
I slumped in my seat, shaking, my heart still racing. Lavanya sat beside me, her voice soft and comforting. "Don't let her anger get to you. You did what you thought was right. Some things… like Sultan's feelings, like Rehan's… you can't control them. Focus on yourself first."
I nodded slowly, trying to let her words sink in. The fight was over, but the ache in my chest remained. Lavanya's presence, though, gave me a small sense of strength — a reminder that I wasn't completely alone.
The class felt heavy after Ritika stormed off. My hands were still shaking, and my chest felt tight like it was going to burst. I avoided looking at Sultan at first, but I couldn't help it — his eyes were on me, watching silently from the front of the class.
He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stood there, tall and quiet, and yet somehow his presence filled the whole room. Every glance he gave me felt like it was reaching straight into my chest.
Finally, when the classroom was quiet and everyone focused on their work, he slowly walked toward me. Each step made my heart race faster, and my stomach twisted in knots.
"Are you… okay?" he asked quietly, stopping in front of my desk. His voice was soft, almost hesitant, but there was something sharp under it — like disappointment mixed with care.
"I… I'm fine," I whispered, my throat tight. I didn't want him to see how scared I was, or how guilty I felt.
He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. "You gave up the badge… on purpose," he said slowly, not angry, but not entirely forgiving either.
"I… I had to," I whispered. "I didn't want to hurt Ritika, and I didn't want to come between you two. I just…" My words faltered. "I don't know what I just… I didn't mean to—"
He stayed silent, letting me stumble over my words. Then, unexpectedly, he knelt slightly to be at my eye level. "I know," he said softly. "I… I just wish you had trusted me to understand. I don't care about the badge. I care about you."
My heart stopped. I couldn't breathe. I wanted to speak, to tell him everything — about Rehan, about my guilt, about how I felt every time I looked at him — but the words got stuck in my throat.
Instead, I just nodded, and our eyes met. No words were needed. For a moment, the classroom faded away. There was only him, only me, and the unspoken understanding between us.
The rest of the class passed in a blur. Every time I looked up, Sultan's gaze seemed to find me, even when he was at the front, keeping an eye on the students. Every small glance, every subtle nod in my direction, made my chest tighten.
I tried to focus on my notebook, on the teacher's instructions, but my eyes kept drifting toward him. He leaned slightly toward a student to explain something, and even then, I felt like he was aware I was watching.
Then I noticed Ritika. She was glaring at me from across the room, her face tight with anger. Every time Sultan looked at me, her scowl deepened, and her jaw clenched harder. I could feel the tension radiating off her.
Sultan, completely unaware of Ritika's growing fury, gave me a small, almost imperceptible smile when our eyes met. My heart skipped a beat. That single glance carried something I couldn't describe — care, warmth, and a hint of something more.
Ritika's eyes widened slightly, and she looked away, muttering under her breath. Her anger seemed to spike every time Sultan's attention lingered on me, and I could feel it like electricity in the air.
By the end of the class, I was exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. Sultan gathered his things slowly, and as he walked past me, our eyes met once more. He didn't touch me, but that look — intense, caring, and somehow personal — made my heart race uncontrollably.
Ritika shot me a glare from across the room, her hands tightening on her desk. I could feel her anger boiling, and part of me felt guilty, but another part of me couldn't help the way my chest fluttered from Sultan's silent attention.
The fight with Ritika had ended earlier, but now a different tension had begun — one filled with quiet glances, silent understanding, and Ritika's growing fury.
The next day, the classroom felt lighter. The fight from yesterday still lingered in my mind, but something had changed. Ritika was sitting quietly, her face calmer than before, and I noticed she wasn't glaring at me anymore.
Lavanya, always the peacemaker, leaned over and whispered, "Why are you two still holding onto all that anger? It's getting too personal. Remember, we're best friends first."
Her words stuck with us. Later, during a quiet moment, Ritika approached me. Her steps were hesitant, and I could see the trace of guilt in her eyes.
"I… I'm sorry," she said softly. "For yesterday, for my anger. I shouldn't have taken it out on you like that."
I blinked, surprised, but nodded slowly. "It's… okay," I replied. "I understand. I didn't mean for things to go that far either."
For the first time since the fight, we shared a small, genuine smile. It reminded me of better days — the good memories we had before jealousy and misunderstandings clouded everything. Laughing together over silly classroom things, working on projects side by side, and those quiet moments when everything felt easy and uncomplicated.
Even though the tension with Sultan still lingered, and my feelings for him were growing stronger, this small act of reconciliation with Ritika reminded me that friendships could survive storms — if we were willing to forgive and remember the good times.
The classroom was almost empty, the last echoes of the day fading away. I was gathering my things when Sultan came up to me, his expression serious but soft, his eyes searching mine.
"I… I need to tell you something," he said quietly, and I felt my heart skip a beat.
"I… I like you," he confessed, his voice low, trembling just slightly. "I can't hide it anymore. I love you."
I felt a rush of emotions — my chest tightened, my throat ached. I loved him too. I always had. But my heart also remembered Rehan — the quiet love I had carried for him all this time. And now, standing here with Sultan, I knew I had to make a choice.
I forced a calm smile, holding back my own feelings. "Sultan… listen," I said, my voice steady even though my heart felt like it was breaking. "Ritika… she loves you. Truly, deeply. She cares for you in every way — more than anyone else ever could. She will give you all the love you deserve. She will make you happy."
His eyes widened, a flicker of confusion and longing crossing his face.
"I… I know this is hard to hear," I continued, my heart aching with every word. "But you need to be with her. Feel her love… let her love you. I promise… she will give you everything. All the love you've ever wanted. You'll see it, and you'll fall for her in ways you never imagined."
I let my hand brush his lightly, trying to steady both our hearts. "I… I want you to be happy, Sultan. And she… she can make you that happy. That's all I can ask for."
He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but I shook my head gently. "Don't speak. Just… trust me for now. Let her love you. You'll see how much she gives, how much she cares… and you'll understand why I had to step back."
Sultan's eyes searched mine, full of unsaid words, full of longing. I could feel the tension between us, the love that still lingered in the air. But I stood firm.
"I love you," I whispered quietly, "but I have to let you go… for her. For Ritika. For the love she has for you. She's given everything she can, and you deserve to feel it all."
He looked at me for a long, silent moment, and I turned, picking up my bag. My chest ached as I walked away. I loved him — I always would — but sometimes love meant stepping aside, letting someone else give them what you couldn't.
And as he watched me leave, I silently hoped he would feel her love, would cherish it, and would finally be happy — even if my own heart broke in the process.
Months passed. Life moved on, as it always does. I watched Sultan and Ritika from afar, laughing together, sharing quiet moments, genuinely happy. My chest would tighten sometimes, but seeing them happy made me happy too.
Yet, there was something else inside me — a quiet spark I had buried long ago. I had killed it, forced it into silence, and it never came back. I had to let it go.
They knew now. They knew I had loved Sultan once, and they also knew the truth I had held in my heart all this time — that I loved Rehan. And I do. I always will.
Before, in my confusion, I would sometimes look for Rehan in Sultan, hoping to feel the care and warmth I longed for. But now, everything had changed. I love Rehan for who he is, and yet… a small part of me still hopes.
I hope that, someday, I will find Sultan in Rehan — in the way he smiles, the way he cares, the little gestures that make my heart flutter. Maybe then, love will feel complete, and the pieces of my heart will finally fit together.
For now, I carry that hope quietly, letting it linger alongside the love I feel, content in knowing that I gave Sultan happiness, and that I still have the chance to love — truly and fully — in my own way.
I didn't want Sultan to feel the pain I had felt. I didn't want Ritika to feel it either. So I took it all on myself, carrying the weight of my love in silence.
At that time, I also felt like a cheater — because I had loved Sultan while my heart truly belonged to Rehan. It was a tangled, impossible feeling, but I endured it quietly, letting both Sultan and Ritika live their happiness while I held back.
Before, I had sometimes looked for Rehan in Sultan. But now, I loved Rehan for who he was. And yet… I hoped, quietly, that one day, maybe I would see the same warmth, the same care, the same spark of love I had felt in Sultan reflected somewhere in him.
I carried that hope quietly, alongside the love I had sacrificed. I had given Sultan happiness, I had let Ritika's love shine, and I had learned that sometimes, love means holding back, feeling the ache, and choosing someone else's joy over your own.
And in that quiet, selfless love, I finally understood what it truly meant to sacrifice your own love for someone else.
AFTER 1 MONTHS —
It began quietly — the kind of moment that doesn't seem dangerous until it's too late.
Lavanya was sitting beside me after school, laughing about something silly, when I noticed a thin line of red on her lips. At first, I thought it was lipstick. Then I saw it — blood. It was coming from her mouth.
"Lavanya, you're bleeding!" I said, my voice trembling more than I wanted it to.
She wiped it quickly and smiled like it was nothing.
"It's okay, Muskan. Maybe I bit my lip or something. Don't panic."
But I knew her better than that. There was something strange about the way she looked — pale, weak, like her strength was slipping away minute by minute.
"You're not okay," I told her firmly. "You have to tell your parents. Please."
She shook her head, still trying to smile. "No need. I'll be fine by tomorrow."
But I couldn't just watch her suffer. That evening, I went straight to her house and told her parents what I had seen. They were shocked. Her mother ran to her room, and within minutes, they were rushing to the hospital.
I waited outside the emergency ward, pacing. When her parents came out, their faces told me everything — the doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong. They tried medicines, tests, everything, but nothing worked.
By the next day, Lavanya was even worse. Her lips had turned pale, her voice faint. I felt helpless watching her slip away like that.
That's when one of their neighbors — a woman named Mrs. Rao — came over. She spoke softly, like she was afraid someone might overhear. She said she knew of a man deep in the forest who could heal people when doctors failed.
"He has helped many," she said. "Take her there before it's too late."
Lavanya's parents looked at each other. They were desperate, and desperation can make anything sound like hope. They decided to go that same evening.
When I heard, I couldn't let them go alone. Ritika and I insisted on coming. Lavanya was our best friend — we had promised to stand by her no matter what. Her parents agreed.
The car ride felt endless. The sun was setting, and the further we went, the fewer houses we saw. The road grew narrow, swallowed by trees that seemed to close in on both sides. The forest smelled damp and heavy, and the air itself felt wrong — too quiet, too still.
Finally, we reached a small, broken building in the middle of nowhere. There were no other houses, no streetlights, not even the sound of birds. Just darkness.
"This must be the place," Lavanya's mother whispered.
A man came out to meet us. His face was half-hidden in the dim light, but his eyes… his eyes made me shiver. There was something sharp and cold in them, something that made me want to look away. The way he looked at me and Ritika — it felt wrong, like he was trying to read our thoughts.
He greeted her parents and told us to wait outside while he examined Lavanya. I wanted to protest, but his stare froze the words in my throat.
Ritika and I sat on the steps, the forest pressing around us. Two men stood near the gate, whispering to each other, glancing at us every few seconds. Their looks made my stomach twist. Ritika clutched my hand.
"Muskan," she whispered, "let's stay close to the car."
We waited what felt like forever. The air was thick with silence — not even the crickets dared to make a sound.
Finally, Lavanya came out with her parents. She looked exhausted, weaker than before. The man handed her mother a small packet wrapped in cloth and said, "Give this to her. She must eat it before midnight."
Her parents thanked him with hope in their eyes. They didn't notice the way Ritika and I couldn't stop shaking.
The drive back home was quiet. No one spoke. The headlights cut through the forest, but it still felt like darkness was following us. Lavanya rested her head on her mother's shoulder, her breathing shallow.
I stared out of the window, my heart heavy. Something about that place didn't feel right. The trees, the man, his eyes — everything in me screamed that we had stepped into something we shouldn't have.
When we finally reached home, Lavanya's parents helped her inside. Ritika and I stood by the gate, unsure of what to say. I wanted to believe everything would be fine now… but deep down, I already knew — the night had changed everything.
The next morning, Ritika and I went to school like always, but the classroom felt strangely empty. Lavanya's seat was vacant. At first, we thought she was just resting because of her health.
"She'll come tomorrow," Ritika said quietly, trying to sound confident. I nodded, but something inside me didn't believe it.
When the final bell rang, we didn't even talk about it — we just started walking toward her house.
Her street was silent when we arrived. The door was half-open, and only her younger brother was home.
"Where's everyone?" I asked.
He looked uneasy. "They went back to that man," he said. "Lavanya was getting worse again."
For a second, everything around me went quiet — even the birds.
"They went back?" Ritika whispered. "Now?"
I felt my throat tighten. The memory of that dark place, those eyes, those men near the gate — it all came back like a shadow slipping through daylight.
We decided to stay there until they returned. The hours dragged on; the house felt hollow without her laughter echoing from the kitchen. I kept staring at the door, wishing she'd walk in, teasing us for worrying too much. But the evening turned into night, and still no one came.
When headlights finally flashed outside, we rushed to the gate. Her parents stepped out of the car, smiling — relieved, hopeful. For a moment, I let myself breathe. Maybe it had worked. Maybe Lavanya was okay now.
But then I saw the empty back seat.
"Where's Lavanya?" I asked.
Her mother smiled faintly. "They said it's better if she stays there tonight. The healer will look after her. We can bring her home tomorrow."
I felt a jolt of anger. "What? You left her there? Alone?"
"She's not alone," her mother said quickly. "That neighbor, Mrs. Rao, stayed with her. Don't worry, she'll be fine."
But the words didn't comfort me. Something about them felt wrong. Too easy. Too rehearsed. Ritika and I exchanged a look — we both felt it. That quiet, gnawing fear that had followed us since the night in the forest.
"Uncle," I said, turning to her father, "please take us there. Now."
He shook his head tiredly. "No, Muskan. It's late. We'll go tomorrow morning. She's safe. Try to rest."
But I couldn't. I didn't say it aloud, but deep down I already knew — nothing about this was safe.
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, every creak of the wind sounding like her voice calling from far away. Ritika messaged me every hour: Do you think she's okay? I kept typing yes, but my hands were shaking.
Sometimes, you don't need proof to know something terrible is coming. You just feel it, like the air before a storm — still, heavy, waiting to break.
The next morning, Ritika and I couldn't wait any longer. We had to see Lavanya ourselves.
Her parents agreed to take us back to that place, though I don't think anyone could tell how heavy my heart felt.
When we arrived, I ran toward her, calling her name. And there she was — smaller somehow, as if the fear and pain had taken pieces of her away.
"Lavanya!" I shouted, and she froze. Her eyes were wide, uncertain. She didn't speak at first, just stared at me, trembling. Then, slowly, she walked over and hugged me.
Her arms were cold. Her grip was tight but hesitant, as if she wasn't sure if this was allowed.
"What happened?" I whispered, holding her tighter than I ever had.
She only shook her head, tears slipping quietly down her cheeks. She hugged me back, but it was different — she wasn't the same. The I wanted to run to them, to hold them, to ask what had happened, but the words wouldn't come. They didn't need me to ask. The silence spoke everything.
That night, I stayed awake, listening for any sound. Every shallow breath from Lavanya and Ritika felt like a reminder of how powerless I was — how helpless we all were. They had gone through it again, and now I feared what the next day might bring.
All I could do was sit in the dark, my heart aching, hoping that somehow, they would survive, and that one day, the fear would leave them.
, the laugh, the mischief — it felt like someone else was inside her body.
As we walked back to the car, she stayed close, but I could see it in her face: she wasn't happy. She wasn't angry. She was numb. Empty.
I wanted to ask questions, wanted answers, wanted her to tell me that everything was okay. But she couldn't. And maybe that was the hardest part — realizing that some things had happened to her that words could never fix.
Ritika and I exchanged glances. We were scared, yes, but more than that, we felt helpless. We could be there, we could hold her, we could try to protect her… but the shadow of that night would follow her. And there was nothing we could do to chase it away.
All I could do was hold her hand, hope silently that one day, she'd smile again.
The next day at school, Lavanya didn't come again. Ritika and I shared a glance heavy with worry. We couldn't wait — the moment school ended, we ran to her house.
Her mother was pacing, hands wringing nervously. "Her father took her there again this morning," she said. "Lavanya… she told him everything — why she's been acting strange. He decided to take her and give all the members to the police."
I swallowed hard. "Everything? You mean…what happened?" My voice cracked.
"she faced gang rape," her mother said emotionally. "I'm going too. I couldn't just stay home."
"I'll come with you!" I blurted out.
Ritika shook her head, grabbing my hand. "No, Muskan. I'll go with her. You stay home. Take care of the house."
I wanted to insist, wanted to go and protect them both, but Ritika's determination left me no choice. I stayed behind, heart hammering, waiting, fearing the worst.
Hours passed. When they returned, the air in the house felt heavier than ever. Lavanya and Ritika walked inside, pale and silent, their movements stiff, their faces empty.
Lavanya didn't speak. She clung to Ritika, her eyes wide and numb. Ritika, too, seemed drained — her shoulders drooped, and she avoided looking at anyone. I could see it in both of them: they had been through something terrible, and the shadows of that place had followed them home.
I wanted to run to them, to hold them, to ask what had happened, but the words wouldn't come. They didn't need me to ask. The silence spoke everything. That something horrible happened to them.
That night, I stayed awake, listening for any sound. Every shallow breath from Lavanya and Ritika felt like a reminder of how powerless I was — how helpless we all were. They had gone through it..especially Lavanya again, and now I feared what the next day might bring.
All I could do was sit in the dark, my heart aching, hoping that somehow, they would survive, and that one day, the fear would leave them.but I knew that they both faced the same thing. As a kid I didn't know that much about rape and all but I felt that was something horrible.
I went home after everyone left. Something felt off. They didn't talk the way we used to. Their smiles were faint, their voices quieter. I could tell something had happened, but I didn't know what.
That night, around midnight, my phone rang. It was Lavanya and Ritika. We started talking like always — laughing, joking, remembering old times. But something about their tone felt strange, almost as if they were saying goodbye without actually saying it.
They said things like, "Be happy, take care of Sultan, and be good with everyone."
I laughed, brushing it off, not realizing what they really meant. We talked all night, and for a while, everything felt normal again. Everything felt perfect.
When morning came, I was excited to go to school. My heart felt light; I couldn't wait to see them. I thought maybe last night was a new beginning — that everything was fine now.
But life… life is never that kind.
Neither of them came to school. At first, I thought they were just late. But something inside me felt uneasy. I went to Lavanya's house, hoping to see her smiling face at the door.
Instead, I found her house filled with people — crying, shouting, breaking. Her parents were inconsolable. My heart stopped. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't believe it. Lavanya was gone.
Numb and trembling, I ran to Ritika's house, tears blurring my vision, praying it wasn't what I feared. But when I reached, it was the same scene — her family crying, her photo surrounded by flowers.
Both of them… gone.
They had ended their lives.
I stood there, empty. No sound. No thought. Just pain so deep it felt like silence. How much can a person bear before feeling becomes impossible?
I didn't know where to go, who to stay with — Lavanya or Ritika. I couldn't choose between them. I went home, hiding my tears from my family, locking myself in my room.
I cried until my eyes had nothing left to give. Then, at some point, I fell asleep.
When I woke up, I wasn't the same person anymore. The laughter, the innocence, the old me — all gone. Something inside me had changed forever.
That day, a new Muskan was born — one who carried the silence of two lost souls within her.
Days after their funerals, school felt like a battlefield. Everyone whispered, everyone stared. Wherever I went, I could feel their eyes on me — cold, accusing, curious.
Then one day, during lunch break, it happened.
A group of classmates stood near the corridor, their voices sharp and cruel.
"It's all because of her," one of them said. "She was the last one who talked to them."
Another added, "Maybe she said something. Maybe she pushed them too far."
My heart sank.
Their words hit harder than any slap. I wanted to scream that it wasn't true — that I loved them more than anything. But no sound came out. My throat burned, my hands trembled, and tears threatened to fall.
I ran. Out of the classroom, down the hall, past the stares — until I couldn't breathe anymore.
That's when Sultan found me.
He didn't say anything at first. He just sat beside me in the empty courtyard, silent. And that silence — it wasn't heavy like everyone else's. It was gentle. Safe.
Finally, he said, "You don't have to explain yourself to anyone, Muskan. The people who matter already know the truth."
I broke down. All the pain, the guilt, the loneliness — everything spilled out. And he just stayed there, holding me together while I fell apart.
From that day, Sultan became my reason to keep going. He didn't try to fix me or erase my pain — he just reminded me that I was still alive, that I still mattered.
But deep down, I knew one thing: once people decide you're to blame, it doesn't matter what the truth is.
And maybe… maybe that's when I truly started to change.
Sultan stayed by my side every day after that.
He'd walk with me to class, sit beside me during lunch, and wait until I got home safely. He didn't talk much — he didn't have to. His silence said enough.
But behind his calm eyes, I could see it — the same storm that was tearing me apart.
Ritika wasn't just my best friend. She was his everything. His first love. His light.
I used to see them together — the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the world. And now, she was gone.
Sometimes, when he thought I wasn't watching, he'd stare at her photo on his phone. His hands would shake slightly, but he never let the tears fall where anyone could see.
Once, I asked softly, "How are you holding up?"
He gave a broken smile. "I'm not," he said. "But I'm trying to keep you from falling apart too."
That's when I realized — he was healing me even when he couldn't heal himself.
We were both shattered pieces trying to keep each other from breaking completely.
There were nights we'd just sit in silence, talking about them — Lavanya's jokes, Ritika's smile, the memories that hurt but also kept them alive. Sometimes I'd cry, and he'd let me. Sometimes he'd cry, and I'd pretend not to notice — just to give him space to breathe.
He taught me that pain doesn't disappear; it softens when it's shared.
And even though he was drowning too, he still reached out his hand to save me.
Maybe that's what love truly is — not romance, not perfection, but staying when it hurts the most.
Every day after school, Sultan and I would go to the graveyard.
It became our place — quiet, hidden, peaceful.
We would sit near Lavanya's and Ritika's graves for hours, saying nothing most of the time. The wind would whisper through the trees, and sometimes I'd close my eyes and imagine they were still there — laughing, teasing, alive.
I always carried my notebook with me. I wrote about my day — how school went, what people said, the moments that hurt, and the small ones that made me smile. It became my way of speaking to them. Writing was how I kept them close.
Sultan always came with me. He'd bring white flowers — Ritika's favorite — and place them gently on her grave. Then he'd sit beside me, staring at the sky as if searching for her there.
We were both Muslim, and I knew what people would say if they saw us there — especially me, a girl, visiting a graveyard every day.
But I didn't care.
I didn't believe in the rules that said love should stop at the edge of a grave.
For me, it wasn't about religion or right or wrong — it was about them.
They were my friends, my heart.
And no belief could stop me from sitting where their memories lived.
Sometimes, Sultan would glance at me and smile sadly.
He understood.
We didn't need words to explain what we were doing there — just being close to them, in silence, was enough.
Those afternoons were heavy, yet somehow peaceful.
Between the pain and the quiet, something unspoken was healing inside us.
For weeks, Sultan and I kept visiting the graveyard.
It had become our world — a quiet space between the living and the lost.
But slowly, I began to notice the change in him.
His laughter, the little he had left, began to fade.
He stopped bringing flowers.
He stopped talking much, even to me.
One evening, as we sat near Ritika's grave, I caught him staring at her name for a long time. His eyes were distant, empty, like he was already somewhere else.
"Muskan," he said softly, "do you ever think some people are meant to leave early?"
I frowned. "Don't say that, Sultan."
He gave me a small, broken smile. "Maybe they were too good for this world."
I didn't understand it then — the weight behind his words. I thought it was just grief talking. So I stayed silent. I wish I hadn't. I wish I had said more, held him tighter, reminded him that I needed him too.
The next morning, he didn't come to school.
He didn't answer my calls.
Something inside me broke as I ran to his house. People were gathered outside, crying.
And before I even asked, I knew.
Sultan was gone.
He had given up.
I stood there, staring, unable to breathe. My world — already shattered — broke into smaller pieces.
First Lavanya. Then Ritika.
And now Sultan.
The one who was healing me, the one who carried my pain, had carried too much of his own.
That night, I went to the graveyard alone. The sky was quiet, and the wind felt colder than ever. I sat between their graves — Lavanya's, Ritika's, and now Sultan's — and for the first time, I didn't write.
I just cried.
Because sometimes, life doesn't just take people from you —
it takes the version of you that existed with them.
And there, under that silent sky, I realized something:
I was the only one left to tell our story.
Days passed, but I didn't feel time anymore. The world kept moving — the sun still rose, people still laughed — but everything around me felt distant, like I was living inside a dream I couldn't wake up from.
Their absence followed me everywhere. The empty seats at school, the quiet hallways, even the small things — the way Lavanya used to braid her hair, the way Ritika would always hum when she was nervous — they all haunted me.
People kept telling me, "Be strong, Muskan," or "They're in a better place now."
But none of those words could fill the silence they left behind. How can you be strong when the strongest parts of you are gone?
I stopped talking much. My friends noticed, my teachers noticed. Even my family tried to cheer me up, but they didn't understand. How could they?
At night, I'd stare at the ceiling and replay our last call again and again — their voices, their laughter, the way they said, "Take care." Only now I realized what they meant.
Guilt started to grow inside me. Why didn't I notice?
If I had just asked more, if I had told them how much they meant to me… would they still be here?
I became quieter, colder, but not weaker — just different. I learned how pain can change people. It doesn't just break you; it reshapes you.
That's when I realized — maybe healing isn't about forgetting. Maybe it's about learning to live with the memories, even when they hurt.
After months of grief, life started moving in its own quiet way.
I still visited the graveyard, still wrote letters, still carried their memories with me. Lavanya, Ritika, and Sultan — they were a part of every breath I took.
But then, my family decided to move to another city. At first, I was angry, scared, and lonely. Moving felt like leaving the last pieces of my world behind.
The day we left, I stood one last time by their graves.
I whispered their names softly: "Lavanya, Ritika, Sultan… I'll carry you with me, wherever I go."
I didn't look back. I didn't cry this time.
Because even though the city, the streets, the air — everything would be different — they would always be a part of me.
Their laughter, their love, their presence — it wasn't gone. It lived in me, in the way I moved, the way I remembered, the way I still smiled sometimes through the pain.
We were apart now, separated by distance, by life itself.
But I knew one thing with certainty: I was never truly alone.
They were still with me. Always.
And carrying them forward — in my heart, in my words, in my soul — was enough..