September 2020 arrived like a storm of nerves swirling inside me. The day I took admission at CMS college was heavy with uncertainty. My father meticulously filled out the forms, his calm determination grounding me, but my own mind was a tempest of negativity and discomfort. The walls of the college felt distant and overwhelming, a reminder of the fear I had tried to bury.
When the admission was finally confirmed, an unexpected wave of relief hit me. It wasn't the end of my worries, but the beginning of something new—stepping into a life vastly different from the one I'd known.
In the first weeks, the shy, hesitant boy I once was began to fade. Slowly but surely, I started making new friends, each laughter-filled conversation chiseling away at my isolation. The college's noisy corridors became familiar territory, the classrooms less intimidating.
The changes came in waves. I found myself caught in heated arguments, sometimes even fights with classmates—defending my ground, asserting myself in ways I never dared before. Sports became an outlet; competing fiercely, I discovered strength not just physical but in will. Debate with teachers sparked fiery disagreements—sometimes challenging, sometimes brash.
The new me was no longer the timid, withdrawn hero of lockdown tales. I had attitude now, a spark of confidence mixed with a short temper that surprised even me. Friendships brimmed with ego and banter, alliances formed and fractured in the flow of youthful energy.
This was growth—messy, loud, and raw. A new version of myself was unfolding, shaped by challenges, victories, and a deeper understanding of who I could become. The past stayed behind, but the future, with all its twists and turns, beckoned brightly ahead.
At first, when I asked Gayatri for a hug, the awkwardness between us was palpable. Her surprise, followed by that subtle, uneasy distance, stayed with me long after. Slowly, the shame crept in; I wondered how I had been so bold, so vulnerable with someone who didn't seem to share my feelings.
That moment became a turning point—painful but clarifying.
As college life unfolded, that hesitation faded into something else. I found myself hugging girls casually, as greetings or goodbyes, with none of the nervousness I once had. It was a way to fit in, to belong, to mask the loneliness that lingered beneath the surface.
Meanwhile, my messages to Gayatri grew fewer. The connection that had been a lifeline during lockdown slowly unraveled, pulled apart by distance and the shifting tides of new friendships. The silence wasn't dramatic—it was gradual, unspoken.
Now surrounded by a wide circle of friends, I immersed myself in the whirlwind of college life—parties that stretched into early mornings, trips that sparked laughter and memories, late-night talks and carefree days. Every new experience was a distraction, a rebellion against the quiet ache of old feelings.
In the chaos of fun and freedom, I told myself I was moving on. But somewhere deep inside, an old part of me waited—mute, watching.
The night air buzzed with excitement as Kaustub and Sneha's party kicked off in Chinchwad, a celebration marking the beginning of their relationship. I arrived, warm invitation in hand, already sensing the energy swirling through the crowd. Moments later, Gayatri stepped in as well, her presence both familiar and quietly observant.
When our eyes met, she noticed the change—how the boy she once knew had transformed. I was more confident now, effortlessly social, my face more defined, the innocent softness replaced by an edge she hadn't seen before.
We exchanged words, but beneath her smile, Gayatri saw the subtle hints—the flicker of attitude, the impatience that sometimes surfaced. The kindness and respect that had defined me seemed distant, like a memory fading at the edges.
As the night grew livelier, I hugged Sneha warmly, then another girl I had just met. Gayatri opened her arms for the natural gesture, but I glanced away and stepped toward someone else, avoiding the embrace.
She caught the moment—the slight avoidance, the cold distance. Her eyes held a mix of surprise and something heavier—an unspoken understanding that I had changed, perhaps more than she had realized.
The innocence was gone. The boy she knew was no longer the same, and in that crowded room, the space between us grew a little wider.
As the party wound down, Sneha approached me quietly. "I'll need to get Gayatri to her relative's place," she said with a smile.
Without hesitation, I agreed to drop her off.
We walked outside to my old dark greenish Jupiter scooter—not flashy, but reliable.
"You still have this?" Gayatri asked, settling onto the back seat.
"Yeah, it's the same," I replied, hearing a slight hesitation in her voice.
She squinted suspiciously in the dim streetlight. "I thought first it was black."
I chuckled. "Dark green—close enough, only in lights its seen, not your fault its dark now."
We rode smoothly through the quiet streets until she asked me to stop near a small shop.
"I want some ice cream," she said.
We goes inside the shop, When she turned to ask my choice of flavor, I surprised her. "I don't like ice cream," I admitted. "Actually, I hate it."
Her eyes widened in shock, remembering the long afternoons at coaching when we both devoured scoops of coco brownie—the flavor that had once been my favorite too.
She bought a cone for herself, and we continued chatting as we rode along. I found myself praising the college, describing the campus and the new life it offered.
Gayatri listened, her smile gentle and warm. "It's good to see you happy," she said softly. "You were so scared before, but now…"
I saw in her eyes a mix of nostalgia and hope. She revealed she will stay in chinchwad for three days at her relative's house in, When I dropped her back at the relative's place, she hesitated, reaching out for a hug. But I kept my distance, offering only a cold handshake. The moment felt heavy, charged with the ghosts of the past and my own guardedness.
As she walked away, she turned back and called softly, "I'll visit your college sometime. Since I'm here."
Her words lingered like a promise—or maybe a quiet hope—for what the next chapter might hold.
The next day, as I sat with my friends during lunch break at college As I sat amid the noisy chatter of my friends during lunch break, my my phone buzzed with a message from Gayatri: "Pick me up?" a message that made my heart skip
A surge of anticipation rushed through me. Without hesitation, I stood up, smoothing my college uniform nervously. "Guys, I've got a surprise for you!" I called out, and with a quick goodbye, I grabbed my trusty dark green Jupiter scooter and sped toward Gayatri's relative's house.
The sun cast a warm glow as I arrived, the quiet street lined with trees swaying gently in the breeze. There she was—standing just outside the gate. She wore casual yet stylish clothes, modest but elegant, her hair subtly shining in the afternoon light. Her presence was calm, but there was a spark in her eyes when she saw me arrive in my uniform. Something about her composed grace made me suddenly aware of my own awkwardness, a strange mix of pride and vulnerability.
We mounted the scooter and headed back to college. The familiar hum of the engine beneath me was comforting, but inside, my emotions swirled—excitement, nervousness, and something else I struggled to name. College grounds where my friends were gathered, eagerly waiting
Back at the college grounds, my friends waited eagerly. As I led Gayatri through the crowd, I took in their smiling faces, already warming to her presence. I introduced her warmly, feeling a new surge of confidence as everyone greeted her with curiosity and kindness. introduced her to everyone, one by one, and as the initial shyness faded, the group quickly grew comfortable together, exchanging smiles and easy chatter.
As we walked, I took Gayatri on a tour of the campus, sharing memories and showing her the spots that had become my second home.
As we walked, she observed how effortlessly I connected with everyone—how both boys and girls approached me with greetings, hugs, and friendly handshakes. The confident, social version of myself was on full display, a marked change from the nervous boy she once knew. In that moment, I wasn't just showing her the college—I was revealing the journey that had brought me here, the growth, the changes, and the complex emotions that came with them all.
As Gayatri moved among my friends, exchanging smiles and shy hellos, the atmosphere grew lively. Several girls giggled and whispered to each other, glancing my way. One of them nodded with a cheeky smile and said, "He is so handsome—flirting with everyone like a star!"
I caught Pushkar's eye, my closest friend, and he couldn't resist stepping in with his trademark grin. Pulling Gayatri aside with a mock-serious air, he began revealing my "legendary" moments—part charm, part chaos.
"Did you know," Pushkar started, "that He once punched a science student? Yeah, over a lab dispute. Things got heated, and let's just say He doesn't do quiet disagreements."
Gayatri's eyebrows shot up in surprise, a giggle escaping her lips.
"That's not all," Pushkar continued. "Remember how he shouted at his teacher during those online classes?
The whole batch heard him ranting about the internet lag. Pretty bold move, right?"
Gayatri's eyes sparkled with amusement as she listened intently.
"And he's no stranger to arguing with teachers," Pushkar said with a wink. "Like that time he challenged the history teacher over a fact she got wrong—he practically stared her down until she admitted it."
Gayatri laughed, shaking her head with disbelief.
"But here's the kicker—" Pushkar whispered, lowering his voice for dramatic effect. "Once, he accidentally sent a romantic text meant for his crush to the entire class group chat. Imagine the chaos! The teacher caught on too; He was mortified."
The group erupted in laughter, and even I had to smile, the memories both embarrassing and strangely proud.
Gayatri looked at me, her smile soft but knowing. That mix of mischief, courage, and controversy was unmistakably mine—flaws and all.
In that moment, surrounded by friends and laughter, I was no longer the scared boy from before but a story unfolding, messy and real.
After the lively afternoon at college, I dropped Gayatri off at her relative's house. She smiled softly, that familiar warmth in her eyes, and suddenly said, "I want ice cream."
We walked together to the nearby shop, the scent of fresh cones mingling with the hum of passing vehicles and chattering neighbors. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a 500-rupee note, confident we could get our favorite flavors and still get change.
But the shopkeeper's face hardened. "No change, sir. You must pay exact or do online."
"I don't have online payment either," i said
He took the 500 and stuffed it into his pocket without giving me any change, turning to serve other customers like I wasn't even there.
I called out sharply, "Hey! Where's my change? You can't just keep it like that!"
He glanced at me dismissively
He took the 500 but didn't give any change and walked away, ignoring me while attending other customers. He shrugged dismissively, avoiding eye contact
"Where's my change?" I demanded, frustration rising.
My patience snapped. "I paid 500! You owe me my change. Don't treat your customers like this!"
He retorted, "That's your problem! Either pay right or go somewhere else."
The tension between us escalated. I stepped closer, fists clenched, ready to confront him. Voices began to rise around us, curious onlookers gathering. The situation was heading toward a fight.
Gayatri grabbed my arm urgently. "Stop! Don't make this worse."
I stepped closer, voice tense. The crowd started to gather, and tempers flared as we almost clashed physically.
Gayatri quickly grabbed my hand and the little bag I had. "Stop. Let me pay," she said calmly, taking out her phone to pay online. she said, "Let me handle this. I'll pay online."
I stepped back as she quickly completed the payment. The shopkeeper muttered under his breath but didn't argue further.
Her steady presence reminded me again how she balanced the chaos I sometimes waded into.
After the chaos at the ice cream shop died down, we found a quiet spot nearby to sit. Gayatri unwrapped her cone and took a small, thoughtful bite, watching me with those steady eyes.
"You really made a mess back there," she said softly, a hint of concern in her voice. "What if that man had done something to you? What if things got worse?"
I smirked, trying to sound confident. "I have hands and legs, don't I? I'd kick that ego out of him, no problem."
She smiled but didn't look entirely convinced. "Okay, you're the fighter—you can punch him if you want. But what if something happens because of that? What if the anger pushes you to do more than just punch? Your life could change in ways you don't expect."
I furrowed my brow, curious, and she began to explain.
"Anger is powerful," Gayatri said, her voice gentle but serious. "It can flood your mind, blurred with rage. In that moment, you might act without thinking—throw a punch harder than you mean, push someone too far. And when that happens, unintended consequences follow: injuries, fights turning violent, legal trouble, or even losing control over your future. One impulse in anger can damage your reputation, relationships, or even lead to serious consequences like suspension or worse."
She paused, letting the weight of her words settle in. "It's not about being weak—it's about being wise. Knowing how to control that fire inside, so it doesn't burn your life down."
I looked at her, understanding dawning slowly. "So you're saying fighting back might feel good in the moment, but it could cost more than it's worth?"
"Exactly," she nodded. "Sometimes walking away, staying calm—that's the biggest strength. You protect yourself that way."
Her words hit harder than any fight could. I realized that strength wasn't just in fists, but in the choices I made when my anger flared.
Sitting there, eating ice cream, I felt a little less fiery and a lot more thoughtful.
Even after Gayatri's thoughtful warning, I stayed stubborn, still caught up in my own way of thinking. The anger inside me hadn't quieted much, no matter how much she tried to reason.
Noticing it, Gayatri smiled softly and playfully held out her ice cream cone toward me. "Here, try this," she said, feeding me a small bite.
I blinked in surprise. "Hey! This is yours."
She laughed lightly, "Well, it's my ice cream, but consider it a gift."
I took the bite, realizing it was like she was sharing a piece of herself with me—her own scoop, not just handing over a spoonful.
When I asked her, "You really gave me your ice cream?"
She looked a little shy, cheeks flushing faintly, but tries to act normal and tried to explain but words tangled up. Instead, she just smiled warmly, taking another bite herself, then feeding the cone out again to me.
She said, I want to share it with you.
It was a quiet, sweet moment—simple but gentle. In that unspoken sharing, I felt her care, her patience, and maybe, just maybe, the beginning of a soft understanding between us.
That small act felt like so much more than just sharing food. It was an unspoken gesture, like she is offering of trust and warmth. By giving me a bite of her ice cream—something she enjoyed herself—she was inviting me into her space, gently bridging the distance my anger had created.
In that moment, the sweetness wasn't just in the ice cream—it was in everything spoken without speech. It was a quiet acknowledgment that despite my fierceness, despite my struggles, she cared deeply. It was patience wrapped in a smile, kindness held in a simple bite shared.
This gesture broke through my stubbornness. It was a gentle reminder that vulnerability and connection weren't signs of weakness, but of courage. It made me realize that sometimes, emotions are less about what's loudly declared and more about the little things quietly given—moments that soften the heart and invite healing.
Sitting there, tasting the shared ice cream, I felt a stirring inside—a fragile hope that maybe, with her by my side, anger could give way to understanding, and walls could slowly come down. It was one of those rare moments where silence spoke the loudest, and the warmth of a simple shared sweetness lingered far beyond the taste.