Summer came with jasmine breezes and unexpected friendship. Mira, a transfer student with bright eyes and louder dreams, sat beside Aarohi in art class. She peeked at her sketchbook and said, "You draw like your fingers speak a secret language."
Aarohi blinked. No one had ever noticed.
Mira dragged her into conversation, laughter, and eventually, a two-person art club that met under the peepal tree every Thursday. Aarohi smiled more. Her voice found rhythm. She wore a yellow scarf one day — her mother's — and didn't care when someone called it old-fashioned.
Under the golden light of June, the peepal leaf shimmered, stronger now. Aarohi touched its edge one morning and whispered, "Maybe I'm not behind. Maybe I'm just growing at my pace."