That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, tears silently rolling down my cheeks. I was careful not to wake my parents—my little heart ached in ways I didn't even fully understand. But one thought kept me company, tender and fierce: I'm inlove. I whispered it to myself over and over, promising I'd do anything to be noticed by him.
By Class 6, life had a spark again. I met a girl from my neighborhood—short hair, slightly chubby, studious beyond belief—but she had this warmth that pulled me in immediately.
"Hi! I'm Tia," she said, her shy smile lighting up her face.
"I'm Kriti," I replied, smiling back.
"Kitkat! I'm going to call you Kitkat," she declared, her eyes twinkling. "You're sweet like chocolate!"
I laughed, lighter than I'd felt in weeks. "Kitkat? Okay… I like it."
And just like that, I wasn't alone anymore.
Then a new girl joined our school. For some reason, the teacher seated me next to her.
"I don't like you," I muttered as I plopped into my chair.
"Me neither," she shot back, arms crossed.
I raised a brow. "Why does Ma'am make me sit with someone I don't even know?"
"What's your name anyway?" I asked after a beat.
"Maya," she said, frowning slightly.
"Well, Maya, I guess we'll survive this together," I sighed.
And somehow, as if fate was laughing at our rocky start, we became inseparable—me, Tia, and Maya. We whispered secrets, shared tiffins, fought over crayons, and patched it up five minutes later. My school days bloomed with the colors of friendship.
But deep down, my heart still belonged to him.
I tried everything to get his attention. My genius plan? Befriend his younger brother. If his brother liked me, he'd talk about me at home. Maybe then, Abhi would notice me too. So I played games with his brother, walked him home, even pretended to get lost just so I could tag along with them. It worked—kind of. Sometimes Abhi would glance at me, sometimes smile faintly. But if I kept up this pace, maybe, just maybe, I'd finally catch his full attention when I turned forty.
That year, I kept my first fast on Janmashtami—all for him. My prayers were so raw, so childlike yet so sincere:
"God, please… let me talk to him. Just a little, please."
And as if God heard me, one evening while cycling in the neighborhood, my wish came true. He was there—cycling with his friends, the wind in his hair, laughter spilling effortlessly.
I glanced at myself in my dark blue full-sleeve top. My heart pounded with a strange confidence.
Then he called out, "Hey! Can you spare some water?"
My hands trembled as I passed him the bottle. "Y-Yes! Here, take it."
He smiled—that smile—and my chest nearly exploded. "Wait… you're in my school, right? I think I've seen you around. I'm terrible with names. What's your name again?"
"I-I'm Kriti," I stammered, cheeks flaming.
"Ah… Kriti. Got it. I'll remember," he said, nodding slowly, still smiling.
For the first time in years, the distance between us closed—bridged by a bottle of water and his effortless warmth.
After that, things shifted. Slowly, quietly. We started talking more, playing in the park, laughing over silly games. Once, he said casually, "You know, if my wife ever wants to work, I'll become a houseman."
Who says things like that at our age? No boy I knew. His words touched something deep inside me. I am impressed even more now.
Another time, he hurt his hand. Looking at me with that half-smile, he asked, "Can you cook for me in the future?"
" HUH, I don't know how to cook," I admitted shyly.
He chuckled, wincing. "Okay… then I'll cook, but you'll have to feed me."
That tiny, teasing promise burned into my heart.
Then came Teacher's Day. On the bus, sitting beside him, my stomach twisted itself into knots. I wore a red top and a long white skirt, feeling braver than usual. He jiggled me playfully, making me shriek, half embarrassed, half delighted. His carefree laugh was sunlight breaking through clouds.
Later, during my stage performance, I forgot half the steps. But all I saw was him—his eyes steady on me, warm and encouraging. When I returned to my seat, he leaned close, whispering, "You did well." Three little words, but they rang louder than the applause of the crowd.
Sometimes, when I played with my hair, I'd notice boys staring curiously, trying to read my face. But their gazes meant nothing. To me, it was always just him.
And gradually, we grew bolder—hands brushing "accidentally," fingers intertwining for a moment longer than they should, shared secrets stitched into every glance.
Then came my birthday. I convinced my parents to let me host a party. I invited him. The hours dragged; he was late. My heart pounded painfully, every minute heavy with dread. But then—he arrived. Red jacket, smile radiant, energy buzzing. Suddenly, the wait didn't matter. Every dance, every clap, every gift blurred behind the glow of him being there.
Me being me after the party, I accidentally deleted almost all the photos, leaving only one group picture with him—it became my treasure. That single photo carried the warmth of the entire day.
When my little world was getting beautiful, COVID destroyed it like nothing, cutting threads we had just started weaving. Silence stretched into months. I thought of him constantly, missing him, replaying every moment, every word, every laugh.
One day in online class, he accidentally joined my class. Without wasting a second, I messaged him, "Hey, how are you ?"
But his reply, "Uh? You are Kriti from class 7."
I said "Kitkat", "Oh ya, Hi, how are you?" he typed, and as I was going to reply, class ended, leaving my mind with a little hope of reunion.
When I finally saw him again after that long gap, my heart pounded in confusion. The bond was there—but thinner, fragile, changed.
Did time steal it away?Was what I felt still love?Or was it just me, holding on to a memory?
Everything hung in the balance....