We stopped by the little ice cream cart near the main road. The vendor greeted us with a lazy smile, and Avyansh stepped forward like he was on a mission.
"One chocolate fudge swirl and one butterscotch crunch," he said, confidently.
I blinked. "Excuse me? Who said I wanted butterscotch?"
He smirked. "I just assumed. You look like a butterscotch person."
I crossed my arms. "Wow. Judgment based on ice cream preference. That's a new low."
The vendor chuckled as he handed over the cones.
"Alright, fine." I took the butterscotch cone and gave it a cautious lick. Pause. "Okay. This is actually good."
"Told you," Avyansh said, smug.
We started walking again, cones in hand. A light breeze rustled the trees lining the road, and the street lamps began flickering on one by one.
He looked over at me. "Do I at least get credit for knowing your taste?"
"You get half a point," I said, licking my cone. "And minus two for that fight."
"Ouch." He clutched his heart dramatically. "Still holding a grudge, huh?"
"I'm just keeping score," I replied, pretending to look serious. "Debaters are trained for that."
"You really are scary," he teased.
"You're just weak."
He let out a dramatic sigh. "And yet, I still bought you ice cream. What does that say about me?"
"That you're trying to redeem yourself."
"Is it working?"
I paused, gave him a sideways glance, then smiled. "Maybe."
We kept walking under the fading sun, ice cream melting faster than we could eat, laughter occasionally spilling into the air between us.
For the first time in days, things felt right again—effortless, like the weight had finally begun to lift.
The walk back home was quiet—but the good kind of quiet. The kind that didn't need to be filled with words. The kind that hummed with comfort.
The streetlights glowed softly as we strolled past familiar buildings, the rhythm of our footsteps oddly in sync. The night was still, except for the occasional car passing and the rustle of leaves overhead.
"Okay, so," I said, breaking the silence, "important question."
Avyansh raised an eyebrow. "Hit me."
"If we ever lose the debate—hypothetically—who takes the blame?"
Without missing a beat, he pointed at himself. "Obviously me. I'm the guy. I'll be the tragic hero who goes down in flames while you win sympathy votes."
I laughed. "Wow. So noble of you."
"What can I say?" he shrugged. "I'm used to being misunderstood."
I nudged him with my elbow. "Don't milk it, Shakespeare."
He chuckled, then glanced sideways at me. "It's nice... you know, this."
"This?"
"You laughing. Us not being awkward anymore."
I slowed a little, and so did he.
"Yeah," I said softly. "It is."
We passed by the little grocery shop near the corner of my street. I could already see the lights from my house glowing faintly in the distance.
"Well," I said, stopping just before the turn. "This is me."
Avyansh nodded. "Got it. Home sweet chaos."
I rolled my eyes. "Pretty much."
He hesitated, then said, "Thanks for today. For everything. For not... hating me."
"I never hated you," I replied. "I just needed space. And maybe some butterscotch."
"Noted," he said with a small grin. "Butterscotch solves everything."
I started walking backward toward my gate. "Goodnight, pigass."
He smirked. "Goodnight, puffer fish."
And just like that, I turned and walked up to my door, the sound of his footsteps slowly fading behind me. For once, the night didn't feel so heavy.
But that peace didn't last long. As I stepped inside, I saw that Dad was home.
I never really feel like myself when he's around. The house feels heavier, colder—less like home. I know many girls have a close bond with their fathers, but mine? It's the opposite.
Every time I try to share something, to have even a light-hearted moment, he either taunts me or makes me feel like a failure. He's obsessed with high scores, always talking about toppers and success. And me? I'm just the "dumb, average kid" in his eyes.
I've excelled in co-curriculars—won medals, trophies, certificates—but he's never once congratulated me. Not a single "I'm proud of you." It's like those achievements never mattered.
I walked past him without a word and went straight to my room. As I changed out of my uniform, I heard Mom calling from the kitchen, saying lunch was ready. I wasn't in the mood, so I refused. And like always, she made it a bigger deal than it was—complaining to Dad about how I waste food and money.
Of course, the next thing I heard was, "Eyana, come here."
I dragged myself out. "If you didn't want to eat, you could've told her earlier," he snapped.
"How could I have told her? I was at school," I muttered.
"Don't argue with me," he said sharply.
That's his favorite line—"don't argue." As if having a voice means I'm being disrespectful. I bit my tongue and stayed quiet.
"Be responsible. You're a grown-up now. Stop wasting my money and focus on your studies. God knows what you even study all day."
His words hit harder than I let on. I just nodded and walked back to my room, my chest tight.
Inside the washroom, I stared at myself in the mirror. His voice kept echoing in my head. I didn't even notice when the tears began to fall.
I washed my face, hoping to rinse away the pain too, then curled up on my bed, willing myself to sleep. Because if I stayed awake, I knew I'd start overthinking again—and that's worse than anything.
Morning came. I had slept for hours, but I still felt drained—mentally, emotionally, everything.
But what can I do? Pretend. Forget. Get up.
Another day. Another mask.
Let's just get ready for school.
AVYANSH'S POV
The door creaked as I stepped into the house, heavy silence welcoming me like an old friend. I could already hear the TV blaring from the living room—my dad was home. Great.
I quietly removed my shoes, hoping to make it to my room without being noticed. But luck has never really been on my side.
"Avyansh," his voice snapped, sharp and disapproving. I froze mid-step.
"Yes?" I replied, trying to keep my voice neutral.
He didn't even look at me when he spoke, eyes still glued to the news channel as if it was more important than his own son. "Back from wasting another day, I see."
Here we go again.
"Debate practice," I said, setting my bag down. "For school."
He scoffed. "Debate? What's the point of all that nonsense? Is it going to get you into a top college? Is it going to feed you when you're older?"
I clenched my fists by my side. "It's part of our assessment."
"Assessment," he repeated mockingly. "If only you put half the energy into your studies as you do into these useless group activities, maybe you wouldn't be stuck with such pathetic grades."
His words cut deeper than he knew—or maybe he did know. Maybe he aimed for the heart on purpose every time.
"I'm doing fine," I said quietly.
"Fine isn't good enough. When I was your age, I was already working part-time, scoring top marks, and helping the family. And look at you—wandering around cafés and wasting my money on coffee and 'debates.' You don't even respect the value of money."
He stood up now, turning to face me, his eyes cold and judgmental. "Do something worthwhile for once. You think life is going to wait for you to figure it out?"
I didn't respond. Because what was the point? He didn't want a conversation—he wanted control. Always had.
I made my way to my room, closing the door behind me, trying to shut out his voice, his disappointment, his shadow that seemed to follow me everywhere. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor, the tension sitting heavy on my chest.
I'm trying. I really am. But to him, nothing I do is ever enough.
And a small part of me wondered if maybe he was right. Maybe I really wasn't enough.
I sat there for a while, staring at nothing. The silence in my room was suffocating, but at least it was mine. I could still hear my dad muttering to himself outside the door, but I'd learned to tune it out a long time ago, and then slept.
Eventually, I got up. My alarm hadn't even gone off yet, but I couldn't stay in bed any longer. Sleep had been pointless anyway—just hours of tossing around between thoughts I didn't want to think.
I moved to the wardrobe, grabbed my uniform, and laid it out on the bed. My fingers worked on autopilot, buttoning the shirt, buckling the belt, adjusting the collar, but my mind was still back in that living room—playing and replaying every word my father had thrown at me.
I glanced at the mirror.
Hair a mess.
Eyes tired.
Smile? Nowhere.
I dragged my hand through my hair, half-attempting to tame it. It didn't help. Nothing really did these days.
I pulled on my shoes, grabbed my bag, and slung it over my shoulder. Just another day of pretending like I had it all figured out.
But before I left, my phone buzzed.
1 New Message — from Tejal:
"Hey idiot, don't be late. You and Eyana gotta help us prep."
I couldn't help but let out a small smile. Tejal never texted without throwing in an insult. And somehow, it helped. Familiar. Normal.
And Eyana...
I paused. Her face came to my mind unexpectedly—serious when she was focused, but warm when she laughed. I hadn't seen her laugh like that in a while.
Maybe today, I could try again.
Maybe today, I could make things a little less messed up.
With that, I stepped out of my room, headphones in, hoping the walk to school would be quieter than the house I was leaving behind.
As soon as I entered the school gates, the familiar buzz of students, morning announcements, and hurried footsteps greeted me. It was chaos, but the kind I could handle—unlike home.
I walked down the hallway, passing groups of classmates, some buried in notes, others gossiping about the latest rumors. My eyes scanned the corridor almost instinctively... and there she was.
Eyana.
She was standing by her locker, talking to Tejal and Jhanvi. Her shoulders seemed lighter today. No forced smile, no glassy eyes. Just... her. She looked up as I approached.
"Morning, puffer fish," I said with a soft smirk, voice teasing—but gentler this time.
She blinked once, then rolled her eyes—but there was a tiny smile tugging at her lips.
"Morning, pigass," she muttered, nudging her locker shut.
I let out a low chuckle. She forgave me. Maybe not completely, maybe she was still hurt—but we were okay. The silence was gone, and that mattered.
"You two back to your nonsense again?" Tejal asked, grinning knowingly.
Jhanvi laughed. "The world is healing."
"Shut up," Eyana and I said in unison, then looked at each other, startled.
Tejal clutched her heart. "Oh my god, they're syncing. It's over. We've lost them."
Before anyone could add another sarcastic comment, the bell rang.
We started making our way to the assembly ground. Veeryansh and Atharva joined us halfway, already arguing.
"Dude, I swear the Maths paper is today!" Atharva groaned.
"No way, it's tomorrow. Don't gaslight me," Veeryansh said, dramatically waving a crumpled timetable.
"Stop spreading panic, you idiots," Jhanvi snapped, pulling them both by the sleeves.
As we lined up with the rest of our class, the principal stepped onto the podium with the mic. The usual speech on discipline and punctuality droned on, barely registering in my ears.
Instead, I glanced sideways at Eyana.
She stood still, hands behind her back, lips pressed together as she stared at the sky. Her expression was calm, but not cold anymore.
For a second, our eyes met. She didn't look away.
And just like that—things felt a little easier again.
The first period had barely started, but the classroom was already a circus.
"Okay people," our class rep clapped loudly. "Those who haven't finished their debate prep, please don't wait for the English teacher to eat you alive."
"Too late," Atharva muttered under his breath. "My soul left my body the last time she said 'Do you even read, Atharva?'"
"Better than her saying 'Do you even think, Atharva?'" Veeryansh added with a dramatic sigh.
The entire bench behind us burst into muffled laughter.
Tejal turned around in her seat. "Can we please stay focused? Some of us would like to pass."
"Oh my god, Tejal's turning into Samiksha ma'am," Jhanvi whispered. "Next thing you know, she'll be assigning us homework during recess."
"Bold of you to assume I haven't already," Tejal shot back with a smirk.
I sat beside Eyana, flipping through the rough notes we'd written at La Vie Café.
She leaned over, raising an eyebrow. "You literally doodled a rocket ship next to the word 'commitment.' What even is this?"
I snorted. "Symbolic. Commitment takes you places, duh."
"You should be committed—to a hospital, preferably," she said, shaking her head.
"But look—" I pointed, "the flames are your anger, pushing me forward."
Eyana narrowed her eyes. "If I set you on fire, that'd be accurate."
The group around us cackled.
"Well," Veeryansh chimed in, "in case you two finish roasting each other, some of us still need help."
"Yeah, like how to not confuse 'platonic' with 'planetonic,'" Atharva added.
"Planetonic love?" Jhanvi choked. "Sounds like romance in outer space."
"Coming soon to Wattpad," I said. "Starring: Puffer Fish and Pigass."
"OH MY GOD NO," Eyana groaned, covering her face while everyone laughed.
Even Tejal, who was initially trying to be serious, was wheezing at this point.
Despite the chaos, despite the tension from days ago, the air around us felt warm again. Friendly. Forgiving. Familiar.
I caught Eyana glancing at me when she thought I wasn't looking. I didn't say anything.
But this time, I smiled.
After the chaos settled a bit—and by "settled," I mean Tejal threatened to confiscate everyone's phones like a certified class monitor—the group gathered around our desks for some real progress on the debate.
"So," Eyana began, flipping through her notes, "we've all picked different angles of love—generational perspectives, emotional maturity, even how social media plays into it. We just need to tie it all together now."
"Right," I said, "we're showing how love evolves but still connects people in the same way. It's just... the tools and expressions that change."
Tejal nodded, now fully in Leader Mode. "I think we should use the concept of 'language of love'—like how Boomers preferred handwritten letters, Gen X had mix tapes, Millennials got awkward texts, and Gen Z sends memes."
"Exactly!" Jhanvi added. "Like, if a guy doesn't send me a meme that personally attacks me by 9 a.m., do I even exist?"
Everyone chuckled, nodding.
Atharva, trying to sound smart, added, "And we should mention how Gen Z has attachment issues and trust problems—"
"Because of people like you!" Veeryansh interjected.
Atharva gasped in mock betrayal. "Excuse me? My toxic traits are very selective, thank you."
"You literally asked your ex if she wanted to be your debate partner," Tejal deadpanned.
"That was for educational growth!" Atharva protested.
"For her or for your ego?" Jhanvi asked, raising a brow.
There was a pause—and then...
"Guys," Veeryansh whispered dramatically, "Atharva is the living example of what NOT to date."
That broke everyone.
Even Eyana, who'd been focused on outlining her part of the topic, let out a snort-laugh she couldn't contain.
I looked over at her, already laughing, and said, "That's it, I'm writing a thesis on this group. Title: 'How Not to Fall in Love: A Survival Guide.'"
Tejal doubled over the table, wheezing. "Chapter One: If he quotes Andrew Tate, run."
"Chapter Two," Jhanvi gasped, "If he says 'I'm emotionally unavailable,' that means he's free to ruin your life."
We all burst out laughing again.
By now, even the teacher walking past the hallway peeked in and gave us a raised eyebrow—but thankfully said nothing.
"Okay okay," Eyana said, wiping tears from her eyes, "let's focus before Samiksha ma'am decides to write us into the syllabus as a cautionary tale."
We all took a breath and got back to our notes—but the classroom didn't feel heavy anymore.
There was still tension from the past few days—still unspoken thoughts between me and her—but right now, in this little moment of shared chaos and recovery, we were finding our rhythm again.
Not just as debate partners.
But maybe as something more.
The final bell rang, and students flooded the halls like bees escaping a hive. The chatter, the footsteps, the occasional "see you tomorrow!" echoed through the school. But I didn't move. Not yet.
Eyana was packing up her books, and for a second, I watched her in silence—the way her brows furrowed slightly when she was lost in thought, the way she smoothed the edge of her notebook like it grounded her. There was something gentle in her quiet, something I was still learning to understand.
I walked up and nudged her bag with the tip of my shoe. "Hey... wanna go up?"
She looked at me, hesitant. "Go up?"
"The rooftop. Just five minutes," I said, trying not to sound too hopeful.
She paused for a beat, then gave a small nod. "Okay."
The sky had turned a soft orange, gold light bathing the concrete floor as a cool breeze swept across the empty rooftop. We leaned on the railing, side by side, the school buzzing far below us but up here—it was calm.
"You didn't laugh like that in days," I said, glancing at her.
She let out a quiet breath. "Didn't feel like it... till today."
I nodded, swallowing hard. "I'm glad you did. I mean it."
She stayed quiet for a moment, eyes focused on the horizon.
"I'm still mad at you, you know," she finally said, voice low but steady.
I expected that. "Yeah. I know."
"You said something that hit deeper than I think you realize," she added, her voice barely above the wind. "Words stay. Especially the ones we try to laugh off."
"I know," I said again. "And I hate that I said it. I was angry and... jealous and just stupid. But I never meant to hurt you."
She didn't say anything for a second.
I turned to her more fully. "You're not what they called you. You're not what anyone called you. You're... one of the most real people I've ever met. And if you let me, I'll spend however long it takes proving that."
That made her finally look at me. Her eyes weren't angry anymore—they were tired, soft, and just a little surprised.
"You don't have to prove anything," she said. "Just don't hurt me like that again."
A pause. Her voice quieter now. "Because if you do... I won't survive it."
That hit harder than I expected. My heart tightened.
"I won't," I promised, firm. "Not again. Never again."
We didn't hug. We didn't hold hands. We just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, under the quiet sky.
And somehow, in the silence, something between us mended—something slow, unspoken, but very real.
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