It started as laughter.
Not loud.
Not cruel enough to be punished.
Just careless—like most damage is.
I heard it before I understood it.
"...just like his father, no?"
The words slid under the noise of the corridor and settled somewhere cold inside me.
I stopped walking.
Ruhan didn't.
He was a step ahead of me, bag slung over one shoulder, posture easy in a way that fooled people into thinking nothing reached him.
I watched the moment the sentence reached his ears.
Not because he reacted—but because he didn't.
His shoulders stiffened. Just slightly. Like a door closing quietly.
I caught up to him. "Ruhan."
He didn't slow down.
"They're talking about your dad," I said carefully. Not accusing. Not whispering. Just stating it out loud so it wouldn't rot between us.
He stopped then.
The corridor kept moving around us—students brushing past, voices rising and falling—but he stood still, eyes fixed somewhere ahead.
"They always do," he said.
"That wasn't—" I hesitated. "It wasn't harmless."
He let out a short breath. "It never is."
We stood there longer than necessary. Long enough for people to notice. Long enough for the weight of being seen to press down.
"I should go sit somewhere else," he said suddenly.
My chest tightened. "What?"
"For a while," he added, already turning back toward the classroom. "It'll calm things down."
I followed him.
Inside, the room felt different—too bright, too watchful. Ruhan paused near our bench, then glanced toward the back. The old seat. The empty one.
The one where no one expected anything from him.
For a second, I thought he'd take it.
He pulled the chair back.
Then stopped.
"You don't have to disappear," I said quietly.
He didn't look at me. "I know how this goes."
"That doesn't mean you deserve it."
He finally met my eyes.
There was something tired there. Not sad. Not angry.
Worn.
"My mother stayed silent," he said softly. "Teachers stayed silent. Everyone thought not talking about it would make it smaller."
His fingers curled around the back of the chair. "It didn't."
The bell rang, sharp and unforgiving.
Around us, students settled. The teacher entered, glanced briefly at Ruhan standing there, and looked away.
That did it.
I saw it then. The cost.
Not just whispers. Not just rumors.
But how easily the world asked him to make himself smaller.
I reached out and touched his wrist. Just once.
"Sit," I said. "If they're going to talk anyway… let them talk about something real."
For a moment, he didn't move.
Then he exhaled slowly and pulled the chair back into place beside mine.
Sat down.
The room didn't explode. No one clapped. Nothing dramatic happened.
But I felt it.
The choice.
Later, during class, a folded note landed on my desk.
Careful. You don't know his family.
My fingers tightened around the paper.
Ruhan noticed immediately. "What is it?"
I crumpled the note and slid it into my bag. "Nothing."
He studied me for a second, then nodded—trusting me the way he rarely trusted anyone.
As the teacher wrote on the board, he leaned closer and whispered, barely audible:
"I'm sorry if this gets heavy."
I shook my head. "I'm sorry you've been carrying it alone."
That made him still.
After school, when we walked out together, I realized something quietly devastating:
Liking someone is easy when it costs nothing.
Staying—when it costs reputation, peace, and the safety of invisibility—
That's when it becomes real.
And Ruhan stayed.
Not because he wasn't afraid.
But because he'd already learned what silence could destroy.
🤍 Written by Pragati Priya (pen name: Zoey)
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