I didn't think I'd ever step into that classroom again.
The faint etchings on the desk, the creaking ceiling fan, the chalk dust floating in slow spirals — all of it hit like a wave of déjà vu. But what truly pierced through the years was her laughter, light and warm, echoing from the last bench.
Anika sat there, her head thrown back, laughing at something Harish said. The sight rooted me to the doorway.
They were my closest people once.
She — the girl who had given me a poem folded into a paper crane on the day before everything fell apart.
And Harish — my best friend, who had once sworn to take a punch for me, only to walk away without a word when I needed him the most.
I knew how this day played out.
We had a group project. We were supposed to meet at the café after class.
But instead, I would say something I didn't mean. Harish would snap. Anika would get caught in the middle.
And by nightfall, the friendship we built over five years would crack like fragile glass.
But today, I had a choice.
I walked slowly to my old seat — third row, second bench. As I passed them, Harish gave me a nod. Anika smiled. I returned it, holding her gaze for a beat longer than I should have.
There was a flicker of recognition in her eyes. Not memory — just warmth. A familiarity that hadn't yet been broken.
I sat down. My palms were sweating. I rehearsed lines in my head.
Don't fight. Don't joke about her sketchbook. Don't let your pride answer for your pain.
When the bell rang and the teacher droned on about history, my mind was elsewhere.
A choice was coming. A trigger moment.
And it did.
After class, Harish tossed me a packet of chips. "You're coming, right? Same café?"
That was when I usually joked — made a smart comment about how he always forgot to carry money.
Instead, I smiled. "Yeah. And I'll pay today."
He looked surprised. "You feeling okay?"
"Just grateful," I said quietly.
He blinked, laughed. "Alright, man. Weird flex, but I'll take it."
At the café, I watched Anika sketch the edge of her cup — a habit I'd forgotten she had. I remembered how she used to fill her notebooks with margins of art and never let anyone see.
"So," I said gently, "are you still working on the forest series?"
She looked up, startled. "You… remember that?"
"I always did," I replied.
For a moment, the world paused.
No sharp words. No broken sentences.
Just peace, like it could last this time.
That evening, as we walked home, Harish patted my shoulder.
"Hey," he said. "You've changed."
I smiled, not ready to tell him just how much.
As I watched the sun dip beneath the rooftops, I knew this — the friendship wasn't broken yet.
And maybe, just maybe, I could keep it from ever shattering.