kept wondering—were his words true? Was Avyansh just being cruel... or did he only repeat what I'd heard my entire life?
You're not a good daughter.
You're dull. Selfish. Useless.
That's what my parents always said. My father constantly compared me to my cousins—how they were smarter, more successful, how they made him proud. Meanwhile, I was just... a disappointment. He never missed a chance to remind me that I wasn't worth the money he spent on me. That my average grades were proof enough that I'd never become anything meaningful. That I was wasting his hard-earned money on nothing but mediocrity.
And Mom... she always found something to criticize. My weight. My looks. The way I dressed. She said it with sharpness, coated in the tone of "just trying to help," but it hurt all the same. Every time something went wrong, it was somehow my fault. What was that word she always used?
Unlucky.
She called me unlucky.
It stuck like a splinter in my chest.
I used to love sports. I was good—really good. But Dad didn't let me pursue it. To him, only academics mattered. Dreams? Worthless. Passions? A distraction. My voice? Unimportant.
And even when I was breaking on the inside, they never noticed. Or maybe they did... and just didn't care. Because if I ever said anything, Mom would snap that I was just trying to get sympathy. That I was being dramatic. So I stopped trying. I stopped feeling—at least on the outside.
But inside? It still hurts.
When I got home that day, I tried to stay invisible.
"Eyana, you're back early today," Mom said, glancing up from the kitchen.
"Hmm," I mumbled, not meeting her eyes.
"Go freshen up and come eat. Lunch is ready."
"I'm not hungry," I said quietly. "I'll eat later."
"If you weren't going to eat, why did I waste food? Do you even realize how much things cost? Honestly, you're such an ungrateful child."
And there it was. Again. That sharp stab of guilt and blame I'd learned to carry like second skin.
I didn't reply. There was no point. I walked to my room, my footsteps heavy, like my thoughts.
I was too tired—mentally, emotionally. I just sat there for a while, letting the silence swallow me. Then, through the window, I looked up at the sky. The night had already wrapped itself around the world. A half-moon hung gently in the darkness, surrounded by stars scattered like tiny hopes across a velvet canvas.
It looked beautiful.
Space has always made me feel... something. Like I belonged to something greater. Even at my lowest, when everything in me feels like it's collapsing, the stars remind me I'm still here. Still breathing.
I don't know if anyone will ever understand how healing it feels to look at galaxies and constellations. How, in the vastness of it all, I somehow feel less alone.
That night, I kept watching the sky until my eyes grew heavy.
And eventually... I fell asleep.
Avyansh's pov
I couldn't stop thinking about her face after I said it.
The way her eyes shifted—like she was trying not to flinch. Like she'd heard those words before.
And I... I just threw them at her like they were nothing.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I didn't mean to say it like that. I didn't even mean to say it at all. But something inside me snapped when I saw Siddhartha looking at her—like she was someone worth admiring. Like she wasn't broken. Like she wasn't like me.
I hated how that made me feel.
And instead of owning that confusion, I turned it into cruelty.
I used my words like weapons. Sharp. Careless.
And the worst part? I saw the way she looked at me when I did.
Like I confirmed every bad thing she's ever believed about herself.
I thought she'd fight back—call me a name, roll her eyes, storm away. But she just... shut down. The laughter faded from her voice. The light in her eyes dimmed.
God, I felt like the worst kind of person.
I sat on the edge of my bed that evening, staring at my phone, half hoping she'd text, half knowing she never would.
I wanted to apologize. But how do you say sorry for pressing on a wound someone has spent years trying to hide?
The room was quiet. Just the hum of the ceiling fan above me and the mess of my thoughts inside. I kept replaying the moment, over and over—her smile just seconds before I shattered it.
I've seen that look before...
On myself.
In the mirror, when my father's words hit too deep. When I told myself it didn't matter, but it always did.
I never wanted to become him.
But today, I did. Even if it was for a second.
And now I can't stop wondering if she's in her room crying—or worse, sitting there in silence, convincing herself that what I said was true.
I'm such an idiot.
I never meant to hurt her.
I just... don't know how to be good at this.
At feelings. At people. At care.
But that's not her fault.
And it was never her responsibility to pay the price for my pain.
Tomorrow, I'll tell her.
Even if she doesn't forgive me, she deserves to hear it from me—clearly, genuinely.
I was wrong.
And she didn't deserve any of it.
The Morning After
The next morning felt... heavier. Not because the sky was cloudy or because the wind had picked up. But because something between us had shifted — and we both knew it.
I walked into school with my usual routine. Saw Tejal and Jhanvi by the gate. Smiled. Nodded. Pretended like nothing was wrong.
But something was.
Because the moment I saw him standing near the classroom door, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the hallway like he was waiting for someone — like he was waiting for me — I looked away.
I walked right past him.
Didn't say hi. Didn't smile. Didn't even glance in his direction.
And I knew he noticed. Because I felt the silence between us scream louder than any word could.
"Eyana," he said behind me, voice low. Hesitant.
I didn't stop.
Not because I was trying to be dramatic — but because stopping meant facing the storm he left behind in me. And I wasn't sure if I could handle it.
Lunch Break. School Courtyard.
I sat under the tree near the far end of the courtyard, my lunch untouched in front of me. Tejal and Jhanvi were somewhere near the canteen, probably giving me space.
They knew I wasn't okay, even though I hadn't said a word.
And then, I heard footsteps.
Slow. Familiar.
"Can I sit?"
His voice again. Softer this time.
I didn't answer. But I didn't stop him either.
He sat down beside me, a safe distance apart, like he knew he didn't have the right to be close.
He was quiet for a moment. I could feel his eyes on me, but I didn't look at him.
"I messed up yesterday," he began, his voice cracking slightly. "Badly."
Still, I said nothing.
"I said things I didn't mean. And even if I didn't mean them, I still said them. And that's on me."
His hands fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. He wasn't looking at me anymore.
"I don't know what I was thinking. Or maybe I wasn't thinking at all. I was... angry. Confused. Jealous. But none of that gives me an excuse to talk to you like that."
He paused and breathed in, shaky. "You didn't deserve it. Not even a little."
I looked down at my hands, blinking back a sting in my eyes.
"I've had people say things like that to me my whole life," he continued, "and I know how much it hurts. I promised myself I'd never be like them. But yesterday... I became exactly what I hate."
His voice broke.
"And I hate that I made you feel that way."
I finally turned to look at him. His eyes were glassy. Honest.
"I don't expect you to forgive me. I just needed you to know that I'm sorry. Really, truly sorry. You didn't deserve to carry anyone else's anger—especially not mine."
There was silence.
I looked away again, swallowing hard. "You know... when you said what you said, it didn't just sound like you. It sounded like my parents. And that's what broke me the most."
He exhaled, closing his eyes. "I know."
I wiped the corner of my eye quickly, pretending like I wasn't about to cry.
"But," I continued, voice softer, "you apologized. And not like most people do. You actually... meant it."
He nodded slowly, eyes hopeful but unsure.
"I'm not saying everything's fine," I said, "but... I believe you."
He looked at me then, really looked — and I saw it: the regret, the weight, and something else... a quiet kind of relief.
"I want to make it right," he said. "Not just with words. I'll show it. Day by day. However long it takes."
"Okay," I whispered. "But no more hurting me just because you're hurting, okay?"
"Never again," he said. And this time, I believed him.
For the first time that day, a breeze passed between us that didn't feel heavy.
It felt like something starting again. Not perfectly, but honestly.
And maybe that was enough.
The desks were pushed together in pairs again. Pages fluttered, pens clicked, and conversations filled the air as everyone slipped into their debate teams. The tension from the morning had faded, replaced by an oddly quiet sense of normalcy.
I sat beside Avyansh again — same spot, same angle — but this time, the silence between us wasn't uncomfortable. It was... tentative. Gentle.
He slid a notebook toward me without a word. I glanced at the open page.
"Modern vs Traditional: How Perception of Love Has Changed Through Generations."
He'd underlined the title twice and scribbled notes in the margins. I raised an eyebrow, a small smile pulling at my lips despite myself.
"You did this?" I asked, surprised.
He scratched the back of his neck, eyes avoiding mine. "Yeah... figured I owed you at least this much."
I flipped through the pages — bullet points, stats, even quotes. It was actually good.
"Okay, pig—" I paused, caught myself. "Sorry. Habit."
He laughed. "It's fine. I deserve at least one insult."
I rolled my eyes, but my smile widened. "Well, thanks. This actually helps a lot."
Across the room, Tejal and Jhanvi kept glancing at us, their eyebrows practically dancing in sync. Tejal mouthed, "You good?"
I gave her a subtle thumbs up, which made her and Jhanvi grin like two kids in on a secret.
"Alright," I said, turning back to Avyansh. "Let's divide the content. I'll handle the emotional and cultural evolution part, and you take on historical and generational aspects."
"Deal," he said, nodding. "Also, found this quote by bell hooks you might like — wait—"
He flipped the page, tapping it.
"Love is an action, never simply a feeling."
I looked at it, then at him. "Wow. That actually fits... perfectly."
"I know, right?" he said, almost excited. "Kinda hits hard, too."
There was a pause.
"You've changed," I said softly, without fully meaning to.
His smile dropped slightly, not in a sad way, just... thoughtful. "I'm trying."
That moment held — warm, genuine — until it was interrupted by Veeryansh dramatically slamming his notebook down beside us.
"HELLO? Debate people? We need ideas too!"
Atharva followed, arms crossed. "These lovebirds already look done with their thesis."
"Shut up," I groaned, tossing a pen at Veeryansh, who ducked.
Tejal leaned over, smirking. "Should we just let them have a solo performance at this point?"
"Enough!" I laughed. "We are professionals. You guys are the distractions."
"You love us," Jhanvi added with a wink.
And just like that — for the first time in days — I laughed. For real.
No weight. No wounds.
Just a group of chaotic friends in a sunlit classroom...
...and the slow, healing start of something new.
"Eyana!" Tejal, Jhanvi, Veeryansh, and Atharva called out in unison. "Help us with the debate too, girl, or else that witch is definitely going to fail us!"
"Fine, fine," I sighed dramatically. "We'll help you. Happy now?"
"From today, Eyana is our goddess," Veeryansh and Atharva declared together with mock reverence.
I laughed. "You two have been spending way too much time with Tejal and Jhanvi. Now even your timing is in sync."
"I know, right, puffer fish?" Avyansh chimed in, grinning as he backed me up.
"Alright, everyone," I said, trying to bring some order, "we're meeting at La Vie Café again after school. Don't be late!"
La Vie Café – Late Afternoon
The cozy hum of La Vie Café wrapped around us like a soft sweater—warm lights, low chatter, and the comforting aroma of coffee and pastries. We had claimed the corner booth again, a table now cluttered with open notebooks, half-finished drinks, and Veeryansh's dramatically scribbled doodles in the margins of his notes.
"Okay, seriously," I said, tapping the edge of his notebook. "Are those hearts supposed to represent 'the emotional intensity of love' or your secret crush on the café barista?"
Veeryansh grinned. "Art has no explanation, goddess. Let it speak for itself."
"Let your notes speak instead," Avyansh muttered, chuckling beside me. He reached across the table to slide a sheet of paper toward Jhanvi. "Here, I listed some points about how Gen Z perceives love compared to the 90s. You can use this as your reference."
"Whoa," Tejal blinked. "Look at you two, acting like debate royalty."
"Don't get used to it," I smirked. "We're only being nice because if one of us fails, we all fail."
"Solidarity through trauma," Atharva added solemnly, holding up a mock toast with his iced coffee.
We all laughed.
"So, what's your angle?" I asked, leaning forward as I looked over Jhanvi and Tejal's rough draft. "You guys are focusing on romantic idealism versus realism, right?"
"Yeah, but it's all over the place," Tejal said, groaning. "We have too many points and no real flow."
"Try organizing it by emotion first," Avyansh suggested, his voice steady. "Like how each generation defines love through security, freedom, or sacrifice. Then back it with examples—songs, movies, even societal shifts."
I glanced at him. "That's actually... smart."
He raised an eyebrow. "I do have a brain, puffer fish."
"Debatable," I muttered, fighting a smile.
The group snorted and continued writing. For a while, all that could be heard was the scratching of pens and the occasional "wait, does this make sense?" from Veeryansh.
As we worked, I noticed something different—something quieter between me and Avyansh. No tension, no awkwardness. Just... comfort. A rhythm. Like our earlier apology had unlocked something softer.
At one point, our fingers brushed while reaching for the same highlighter. We paused. He looked at me—not with the usual smirk or sarcasm—but something gentle. Grateful, maybe.
I quickly looked away, cheeks a little warmer than before.
"Okay," I said, shaking off the flutter in my chest, "We're almost done. Group photo to commemorate our collective suffering?"
Everyone groaned, but no one objected. Tejal took the photo, and in it—we weren't just classmates trying to survive a debate. We were something more.
Maybe this whole thing wasn't just about love as a topic.
Maybe we were learning how to feel it, in small, unexpected ways.
Together.
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