Time passed like a soft breeze—silent, constant, and unnoticed. Eisha and Ayaan were no longer the five-year-olds who had met over a toy car. They were now in class four, walking to school together every morning, with matching water bottles and bags that told the story of how alike their lives had become.
Their school, a cozy little institution not far from home, felt like an extension of their neighborhood. They were in the same class, always seated beside each other—by teacher's choice or their own. Everyone knew them as "Eisha-Ayaan"—a single name spoken like a pair, like they were born to be side by side.
Eisha loved school. She was the loud answerer, the class monitor, the mischief-maker who could melt the teachers with her smile. Ayaan, in contrast, was the silent note-taker, the boy who never got caught but always helped others when they did.
He didn't talk much, but when Eisha struggled with her Hindi homework, he would gently slide his notebook across the desk. When she forgot her tiffin, he would quietly share his paratha, half-wrapped in foil, without a word.
"You never talk much, do you?" she asked one day during lunch, swinging her legs from the classroom bench.
"I talk when I need to," he replied, shrugging, "but you talk enough for both of us."
She hit his shoulder with a laugh. "Rude."
He smirked, and for a second, their eyes locked. A moment of silence passed—one that neither of them understood, but both felt. It was brief but heavy, like something more than friendship was forming beneath the surface, too shy to speak yet.
Their parents had become even closer over the years. Friday nights turned into family dinners, with Ayaan's father and Eisha's dad watching cricket matches, while their mothers swapped recipes and teased the kids about how they fought like an old married couple.
"Someday, you two will realize how much you care for each other," Eisha's mother once said playfully.
Both kids had blushed hard. Ayaan had left the room. Eisha had thrown a pillow and yelled, "Ma! Stop embarrassing me!"
But that night, when she lay in bed, she wondered why her heart had beat so fast. And when Ayaan lay under his blanket, staring at the ceiling, he wondered why the idea didn't feel… wrong.
One winter evening, something small but strange happened.
It was their school's annual sports day. Eisha was selected for the 100-meter sprint. She wasn't the fastest, but she was competitive, and she wanted to win. Ayaan was not participating—he hated running in front of crowds. But he was there, standing near the tracks, arms crossed, watching.
The race began. Eisha ran as fast as she could, her heart thumping, her breath burning. She didn't win. She came third.
That evening, she didn't talk much. Ayaan noticed it.
"You're mad?" he asked, walking beside her.
She didn't answer.
"You ran well."
"I didn't win," she said, her voice small.
"You ran better than anyone who gave up halfway. That matters."
She looked up at him, surprised. Ayaan rarely gave compliments. But in that one line, he had said what she really needed to hear.
"Thanks," she said softly.
They walked the rest of the way home in silence. But it was a comfortable silence—the kind that wrapped around them like a soft scarf in winter. And maybe, just maybe, that was when Eisha realized something was changing. Or maybe it had been changing all along.