If Ananya had known that morning would be the last time she ever saw Arav, she would've held on just a little longer.
But fate never gives warnings.
It just takes.
The summer sun was gentle, the kind that warmed the skin without burning it. Birds chirped like they did every year, school kids ran past her street the same way they always did. Nothing looked different. Nothing felt unusual.
Except for one thing—
Arav wasn't at the gate.
For thirteen years, he had always been there.
Sometimes leaning against the old banyan tree with his bag dangling off one shoulder. Sometimes pacing restlessly, pretending he wasn't waiting for her even though she always caught him checking his watch. Sometimes sitting on his bike seat, grinning like an idiot the moment he saw her walk out with her half-tied hair.
But that morning, the gate stood empty.
Just a thin silence blowing with the warm breeze.
"Maybe he's late," Ananya murmured to herself, clutching her books tighter.
She waited.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen.
Still no Arav.
Her mother came out with her dupatta thrown over her shoulder. "Why aren't you leaving, Ananya? Don't tell me you're waiting for that boy again."
Ananya forced a smile. "He's… usually here by now."
Her mother sighed. "Children grow up. They change. You should too."
But that didn't make sense.
Not with Arav.
He had been hers since they were five—her loudest cheerleader, her partner in fights, her safe place. He had pulled her out of trouble more times than she could count. He had carried her bag when she sprained her ankle, thrown stones at lizards because she was scared, and copied her homework when he was too lazy to finish his.
He had looked at her thousands of times, but never once had she felt uncomfortable.
He had always been there.
So why wasn't he today?
She finally left for school, but every step felt heavier than the last. A strange uneasiness crawled into her chest. At school, his bench was empty too. Teachers called attendance, his name echoed in the room, and Ananya's stomach tightened when the answer remained silent.
"Maybe he's sick," her friend Riya whispered.
But Ananya knew he wasn't.
She didn't know how… she just knew.
Her hands kept trembling through the day. She messaged him, she called him. The calls didn't go through. The messages never delivered.
By evening, the uneasiness had turned into fear.
She sat on their favourite rooftop spot, hugging her knees, waiting like she always did whenever they fought. He always came. He always apologized, even when it wasn't his fault.
But that evening, the stairs stayed empty.
By nightfall, her worry turned into a knot so tight she could barely breathe.
Finally, desperate, she walked to his house.
His mother opened the door, tired eyes behind her spectacles, her hair tied in a loose bun. She froze when she saw Ananya.
"Aunty… is Arav okay?" Ananya asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
For a moment, his mother looked away. Tears shimmered in her eyes.
And then she said the words that carved themselves into Ananya's chest forever.
"Beta… he left."
Ananya blinked. "Left? Where?"
His mother's voice cracked. "He just… left. He didn't tell anyone. Not even me."
A chill spread down Ananya's spine. "But that's impossible… Why would he leave? Without telling me? Without telling you?"
His mother held the doorframe as if she might collapse. "He kept saying he needed to fix something. Something only he could fix."
Ananya's lips trembled. "When did he go?"
"Early morning," his mother whispered. "Before sunrise."
She felt something inside her break. It was a strange kind of pain—deep, quiet, sharp. Like someone had reached inside her and ripped out the one piece that made her whole.
She stumbled back, tears filling her eyes. "He didn't even say goodbye," she whispered.
His mother's expression softened. "If he could have… he would have. I know my son."
But Ananya wasn't sure anymore.
Not when he had walked away so silently.
Not when he had left without a single word.
When she reached home, she locked herself in her room. She pressed her palms to her eyes but the tears still came. Her throat burned. Her breath hitched. Her heart felt like it was collapsing.
She didn't sleep that night.
Or the next.
Or the next.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. No message. No letter. No sign.
She sent him voice notes—her voice shaking, soft, hopeful, desperate.
"Arav, please just tell me you're fine…"
"Are you angry with me? Did I do something?"
"You promised to never leave me."
"Just one message… please."
But every voice note turned into a blue void of silence.
Riya tried to comfort her. "If he didn't want you, he would've said it. Something must have happened."
But Ananya heard only the silence.
Only the empty mornings.
Only the void where he should've been.
Every festival, every birthday, every exam result… she waited for him to show up. Even one glimpse. Even one accidental sight.
But five years passed—
Very slowly for her.
Too easily for the world.
Until the day he returned.
That evening, the sky was streaked with the colors of a dying sunset. Ananya was walking home from college, tired from classes, her mind on nothing in particular. She carried her books close, her bag hanging loosely from her shoulder.
She wasn't thinking of him that day.
Not because she had moved on—
but because sometimes even the deepest wounds stopped bleeding.
She passed the old tea stall, the same one where she and Arav used to steal samosas without paying. She glanced at it, a faint, sad smile brushing her lips.
And that's when she saw him.
Leaning against a black bike parked under the banyan tree.
Tall.
Broader than before.
A little more rugged.
A little more dangerous.
No boyish smile.
No playful eyes.
Just a cold, unreadable face that looked nothing like the Arav she knew.
For a moment, she froze. Her breath caught in her throat. Her books slipped from her hands and fell to the ground with a soft thud.
He lifted his head.
Their eyes met.
Time didn't stop—
It broke.
She felt something in her chest explode—pain, shock, anger, all at once. The world blurred around the edges, but his face stayed sharp, painfully sharp. The same eyes, but colder. The same lips, but harder. The same boy… but wrapped in five years of secrets.
Arav pushed off the bike and walked toward her slowly.
Her heart thudded wildly. Every step he took felt like he was walking across the pieces of her shattered past.
When he stopped in front of her, the evening air tightened.
"Hi, Ananya," he said quietly.
His voice…
God, she had almost forgotten how it sounded.
Deep. Soft. Familiar.
But now there was a shadow in it, something heavy, something that didn't belong before.
She swallowed hard. "You left," she whispered.
He didn't blink. "I had to."
"Without telling me?" Her voice cracked. "Without a goodbye?"
He looked away, jaw tightening. "It was… complicated."
She felt her fists clench. "It wasn't complicated for me, Arav. It was just painful."
He closed his eyes for a second, like her words pierced him. But he didn't apologize.
Instead, he said, "We shouldn't talk about the past."
Ananya laughed bitterly. "Easy for you. You didn't spend five years waiting."
His expression shifted—just a flicker—but he hid it quickly. "I'm not the same person anymore."
"You're right," she whispered. "You're a stranger."
The evening wind rustled the banyan leaves above them. A dog barked in the distance. A scooter honked somewhere behind. But around them, the world felt pin-drop silent.
She stared at him—at the boy she knew, and the man she didn't.
"What do you want, Arav?" she asked softly.
He met her eyes—really met them this time. Something dark, something wounded flickered in his gaze.
"I came back," he said, "because I owe you the truth."
Her heart skipped.
Before she could speak, he added, voice barely above a whisper:
"And because I never stopped loving you."
The words hit her harder than his disappearance.
And when he stepped back and said, "But you need to stay away from me now,"
her entire world tilted.