700 ᏦᎥᏝᎧᎷᏋᏖᏒᏋᏕ ᏗᏇᏗᎩ

Chapter 9: Shadows After School

Their world was still full of chaos—but between them, after school, in the shadowed corners of their city, peace bloomed.

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As weeks passed, their routine deepened.

Harshan would often wait near the wall at the end of the school's side road, pretending to adjust his bag or check his notebook, all the while hoping she would appear. She always did—sometimes earlier than expected, other times right on the dot. They never said goodbye with a set plan to meet. Yet they always found each other.

Once, it rained heavily right as school ended. Students ran for shelter or rushed to the gates where vans and parents waited. Harshan, soaked halfway already, leaned against the gatepost, unsure if she would come that day. But then he saw her—struggling with her umbrella, one strap of her bag slipping off her shoulder.

She grinned at him through the rain. "Guess we can't skip our daily walk now, can we?"

They shared the umbrella, shoulders touching, feet splashing through muddy water, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

"You know," she said, "if our school finds out about this, we’re going to become a tale."

"A cautionary one or a romantic one?" he asked.

"Depends on who's telling it," she replied.

On another day, when the skies were clear and everything felt a little too bright, Harshan brought two small cups of ice cream from a nearby shop. They sat under a neem tree just outside their colony.

"You don’t talk much," she said, spooning vanilla into her mouth.

"I talk when I have something to say."

"Then say something now."

He thought for a moment, then looked at her.

"I think this... whatever this is—it’s the best part of my day."

She smiled, looking down at her cup. "Same."

They never called it love. They never had to. It was in the pauses, the shared pani puri, the silent walks, the study help, and the comfort they offered each other without fanfare.

Sometimes, they’d sit by a quiet lake not far from their neighborhood. On one such evening, Harshan brought a plain notebook. He turned to a fresh page and pulled out a pencil.

"You sketch too?" Ishwaani asked, peering over his shoulder.

"Not much. Only sometimes, when I don’t know how to say things out loud."

She watched as he slowly began sketching—her hair pinned loosely behind her ear, the way her head tilted when she asked questions, her half-smile when she teased him.

It wasn’t perfect. The lines were uneven, the shading clumsy. But it was her.

"You drew me," she said softly.

"Not all of you. Just... the parts I see when you’re being you."

She blinked, not saying anything for a while.

Then finally, "I never knew you looked at me that closely."

"I don’t look," Harshan replied. "I notice."

Their after-school hours became a sanctuary. A fragile, beautiful bubble they built between them, untouched by school politics, parental tensions, or the pressure of exams.

Yet, every bubble holds a fear of bursting.

One afternoon, as they sat on their usual bench, Ishwaani looked distant.

"What’s wrong?" Harshan asked.

"Nothing. Just thinking."

"Tell me."

She hesitated. "What if... this doesn’t last? What if we drift away like everyone else does after school?"

Harshan looked at her, eyes serious. "We won’t. Not unless you want us to."

She held his gaze. "I don’t."

He nodded. That was enough.

The days continued. The exams grew nearer. The pressure mounted.

But through all of it—through long school hours, tough chapters, and restless nights—there was always that walk home.

That bench.
That pani puri stall.
That hand briefly brushing another.
That quiet promise neither of them voiced, but both deeply felt.

And as the 11th public exams drew near, Harshan often found himself wondering:

Was it love?

Or was it something even more delicate?

Whatever it was, it had become the anchor to his days.

And he wasn’t ready to let go.

Not yet.