The wind outside my window fades, and in its place, I hear something else—chalk against a blackboard, the low hum of fans turning lazily above us. For a moment, the smell of medicines disappears, replaced by the faint scent of dust and paper. When I open my eyes, I'm back in that old classroom again.
I was in Class 8 then.
The sun used to fall across the computer lab windows, cutting bright squares on the floor. My best friend, Aashi, sat beside me, doodling hearts on the margin of her notebook as our computer teacher announced another group project.
"Four members each," the teacher said, tapping the desk for attention. "Choose wisely this time."
Aashi groaned. "Not again," she whispered. "Last time, half the group vanished after the first day. I'm not working with any more ghosts."
I laughed quietly. "So what's the plan, genius?"
"We pick smart people this time," she said, twirling her pen. "No freeloaders. Let's bring someone who can actually code instead of just breathing loudly beside us."
We both turned to look around. The class topper, sitting in the front row, was helping someone with their file. He always looked like he had life figured out—neat handwriting, confident smile, a little too sure of everything. But his jokes were good, the kind that made even the teachers laugh.
"What about him?" Aashi whispered.
"The topper? He's too serious.And you have a history with him right? Are you sure?"
"Exactly. Serious means hardworking.And it was long time ago."
I shrugged. "Fine. Add him before someone else does."
When we asked him to join, he grinned and said, "Only if you promise not to make me do all the work." His tone was playful, and for a moment, the air around us felt lighter.
That made three of us.
But we needed one more.
"Who do we add now?" I asked, scrolling through the class group list on my phone.
Before I could decide, the topper looked up and said, almost casually, "What about him?"
He pointed toward the back row—the boy sitting by the window, half-lost in his own world. I knew him. We all did. Quiet, rarely spoke unless someone asked him something, always seemed to be thinking about something else. We were classmates, but we'd never really talked.
"Are you sure?" Aashi asked. "He doesn't even answer attendance properly."
The topper just smiled. "Sometimes the quiet ones surprise you."
And maybe he was right.
Because that day, he did.
He looked up when we called his name.
"Rayan" .
The name that i still cannot forget.
There was a hesitation in his eyes, like he wasn't sure if we were joking. But when he realized we were serious, a small, shy smile appeared.
"Okay," he said simply.
That was it—just one word.
But somehow, that single 'okay' became the start of everything.
We didn't know it then, but that small decision, that simple project, would shape the rest of our lives.
Sometimes, life doesn't announce its turning points. It hides them in group assignments and shared laughter—and in the faces you never forget.