Karthik wasn't sure when it started, but recently, every blank page he opened had her name in the margins.
Ananya.
Written in small, careful letters. Sometimes in cursive. Sometimes in blocky capitals. Sometimes surrounded by lazy doodles—a cloud, a smiley face, a flower.
It wasn't deliberate. It just… happened.
He sat in the back bench during history class, barely listening to the teacher drone on about colonial policies. Instead, he flipped through his notebook and saw it again—Ananya. Written next to a half-finished poem.
He let out a quiet sigh, not of frustration, but of disbelief.
How had this happened?
The boy who once thought feelings were distractions now found himself looking forward to the sound of her laugh, the swing of her ponytail, the warmth of her shoulder when they sat close.
And worse… or maybe better… she seemed to feel the same.
During break, Ananya pulled him aside, holding his wrist like it was something precious. "Hey, I was thinking…"
"Hmm?" he said, trying not to focus on her hand around his wrist.
"There's this interschool literature contest. They want submissions—poetry, essays, that kind of thing. You should try."
Karthik froze. "Me? No way."
She tilted her head. "Why not?"
"I don't… I mean, I'm not good enough for that."
"You're better than good," she said, not smiling this time. Just looking him dead in the eyes.
He stared back. Her gaze made him want to believe her.
But doubt was a disease, and it had lived in him too long.
"I wouldn't know where to start," he said softly.
She grinned. "That's easy. Start with something honest."
And just like that, an idea formed.
That night, Karthik sat at his desk, the city quiet outside his window. He opened a fresh page in his notebook, took a deep breath, and began to write.
The title?
"Ananya"
It wasn't a love poem. Not exactly. It was a portrait in words. He wrote about how she saw things he missed. How she turned silence into comfort. How she filled space without asking for it. How her voice lingered even when she wasn't speaking.
How she made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he wasn't broken after all.
By the time he finished, it was past midnight. He closed the notebook gently and placed it beside his pillow.
He didn't know if he'd submit it.
But for now, writing it felt like enough.
And when he finally fell asleep, he dreamed—not of darkness or fear—but of the way she had smiled the day before.
That quiet smile that stayed.
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End of Chapter 98