That night, Karthik couldn't sleep.
He stared at the ceiling fan spinning above, its rhythmic creak a lullaby for thoughts rather than sleep. Ananya's words echoed in his head again and again: "You matter."
No one had ever said that to him.
Not his classmates. Not even his parents, at least not in those exact words. But when Ananya said it—calm, clear, and without expectation—something inside him shifted.
He didn't feel fixed. But he didn't feel broken either.
The next morning, his shirt still slightly damp from being dried under the fan, he walked into school with an unfamiliar sense of calm. His footsteps didn't feel so heavy. He didn't clutch his bag like a shield anymore.
When he entered the classroom, he saw Ananya already there, chatting with her friend Swetha. The moment her eyes met his, she gave him a smile.
It wasn't the usual teasing or proud grin.
It was… soft. Gentle. Quietly affectionate.
And it stayed on her face a little longer than necessary.
During lunch, they sat at their usual place near the library steps. It was shaded, quiet, and barely used by others. Ananya laid out her lunch and asked, "What's something about you that no one knows?"
Karthik raised an eyebrow. "You first."
"Okay," she said, resting her chin on her hand. "I hate pineapple. But my mom puts it in everything because she thinks I love it."
Karthik chuckled. "That's tragic."
"Your turn."
He looked down at his fingers, picking at the seam of his notebook. "I used to write poems. Weird ones. Dark ones. I stopped."
"Why?"
"They felt… pointless. Like no one would care what I wrote."
Ananya leaned back, staring at the sky. "Then maybe you just needed the right person to read them."
He glanced at her, a flicker of hope in his eyes. "Would you want to?"
She turned to him. "Of course."
He hesitated, then reached into his bag and pulled out an old tattered notebook. It was worn at the edges, the cover faded. She took it carefully, as if it were fragile.
As she flipped through the pages, her eyes scanned quickly, then slowly. She wasn't pretending. She was reading. And when she paused, it was not out of boredom—it was because she was moved.
"These aren't weird," she said. "They're raw. Honest. Beautiful."
He swallowed, unsure what to say.
Then she added, softly, "Don't stop writing."
There were no fireworks or dramatic music. Just her words, her voice, and the silence between them that felt full instead of empty.
It was enough.
And when the bell rang, they stood together.
Not quite holding hands. Not quite apart.
Somewhere in between.
But whatever it was, it was growing stronger.
---
end of Chapter 97