𝙀𝙡𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙮 𝙨𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙
𝘼𝙧𝙘 𝟮: 𝙎𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙢 𝘼𝙧𝙘
𝘾𝙝 𝟮𝟱 — 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜
The soft, late afternoon sun rested like a warm blanket over the orphanage garden, painting the entire courtyard in deep shades of gold and amber.
The melodic sound of children’s laughter echoed through the open brick yard, bouncing off the weathered stone walls like music that simply refused to disappear.
Nearby, a pair of old, rusty iron swings creaked gently on their chains as they swayed through the air.
Tiny, scuffed slippers were scattered carelessly near the base of the concrete staircase, abandoned in the rush of playtime.
Across the wide stone pathway, colorful chalk drawings covered nearly every available inch—crooked flowers, badly proportioned animals, random lopsided stars, and names hurriedly scribbled by little hands.
It was the simple, innocent work of children who only wanted a small piece of proof that they existed, that they occupied a real place somewhere in this vast, chaotic world.
A few tired but smiling caretakers moved through the courtyard, carrying wide plastic trays piled high with evening snacks and small juice boxes.
They shouted constant, gentle warnings across the yard.
“Slowly, everyone! Don’t run too fast on the bricks!”
Of course, nobody listened.
Near the center of the grassy patch, 𝗦𝗵𝗮𝗸𝘀𝗵𝗶 walked carefully, balancing a woven wicker basket filled to the brim with juice packets and small biscuit packs in her arms.
Her loose, dark hair swayed lightly in the gentle breeze as she deliberately stepped into the middle of a minor crisis, trying to stop three young boys from aggressively fighting over the very last orange-flavored juice box.
“𝘚𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘺! 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦!” she laughed, her voice easily cutting through their high-pitched arguments.
One little boy, his face smudged with dirt, pointed an accusing finger at his companion.
“𝘏𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺, Didi! It’s not fair!”
“𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵!” the other boy fired back, hiding his hands behind his back.
“𝘋𝘐𝘋 𝘛𝘖𝘖!”
Shakshi closed her eyes and sighed with theatrical drama, shaking her head.
“𝘐 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴 I’ve read about.”
The children paused for a split second before bursting into loud, synchronous giggles, their brief rivalry entirely forgotten as they reached into the basket.
Not far away from the vibrant noise, buried deep beneath the thick shade of a massive banyan tree, 𝗚𝗮𝗿𝘃𝗶𝘁 sat completely alone on the low cement border that ringed the trunk.
One of his elbows rested heavily over his knee, his chin propped in his palm as his eyes silently, blankly followed the chaotic patterns of the children running across the grass.
Even wrapped in an environment entirely surrounded by genuine joy, he somehow looked completely disconnected from the reality of the world around him.
He looked exactly like a spectator watching the flow of life from the outside of a thick, soundproof glass wall.
Suddenly, a scuffed football came rolling across the dirt, bouncing softly before coming to a stop directly against the toe of his shoe.
A small, breathless boy came rushing after it, but his fast footsteps slowed down to a hesitant crawl the moment he realized exactly who was sitting there.
The child stopped a few feet away, staring carefully at Garvit’s imposing posture and closed-off expression with visible nervousness.
“𝘚…𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺, bhaiya,” the boy mumbled quietly, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
Garvit stared down at the black-and-white ball for a long, silent second.
He didn’t say a word, but he slowly extended his leg and pushed the ball back toward the child with the side of his foot.
The boy blinked in pure surprise, clearly expecting a scolding.
Then, a bright smile broke across his face as he scooped up the football and sprinted away toward his friends.
From all the way across the garden, Shakshi caught the brief interaction.
She let out a very soft, quiet sigh to herself, her eyes softening as she watched the distant teen sink back into his slouch.
“𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 away in the shadows,” she murmured under her breath.
After finishing the distribution of the snacks, she walked over to a lively group of older boys who were currently trying to set up three blue plastic wickets and a worn wooden cricket bat near the edge of the brick path.
One of the boys, noticing Garvit sitting by himself under the tree, suddenly tugged on Shakshi’s shirt and pointed a finger.
“𝘋𝘪𝘥𝘪! Look over there. 𝘈𝘴𝘬 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰! We need someone to bowl properly.”
Shakshi’s eyes flashed with a mischievous, playful spark.
She smirked, crossing her arms.
“𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘮𝘦? If you want him to play, 𝘨𝘰 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.”
The children exchanged nervous, apprehensive looks, whispering among themselves.
Then, drawing courage from their numbers like a tiny squad of soldiers preparing to march into a dangerous war zone, they formed a tight group and marched directly toward the shade of the banyan tree.
Garvit noticed the collective shadow falling over his lap and slowly raised his head, his dark eyes meeting the gaze of the small delegation.
The smallest child in the front lines stepped forward, holding out a worn tennis ball covered in green felt with visibly shaking hands.
“𝘗𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘶𝘴, bhaiya.”
Garvit stared blankly at the kid, then at the ball.
“…𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵?”
“𝘞𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳 to make the teams even!” another boy added quickly, finding his courage.
“Please?”
Garvit looked away, his gaze drifting back toward the distant horizon.
“𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺.”
“That’s completely okay,” one of the middle kids replied instantly with total innocence.
“𝘕𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘦. We are all terrible at it.”
A few of the kids in the back burst into spontaneous laughter at the truth of the statement.
Garvit closed his eyes briefly, a wave of familiar irritation washing over him, before he exhaled a long, deep breath through his nose.
He realized they weren’t going to leave him alone.
“…𝘍𝘪𝘯𝘦. Just for a bit.”
The moment the word left his mouth, the children exploded into a wave of pure excitement, jumping up and down as if they had just successfully secured an international championship trophy.
“𝘠𝘌𝘚!”
“𝘏𝘌’𝘚 𝘈𝘊𝘛𝘜𝘈𝘓𝘓𝘠 𝘗𝘓𝘈𝘠𝘐𝘕𝘎!”
“𝘛𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦! I want the tall bhaiya on my side!”
Shakshi watched the entire scene unfold from the opposite side of the yard, a genuine, fond smile finally tugging at the corners of her lips.
At the start of the match, Garvit barely put any effort into participating properly.
He stood at his designated fielding position mechanically, going through the motions like a programmed robot.
He threw the ball back to the bowler without any real energy, and spoke only when a direct question required a monosyllabic answer.
But children possessed a strange, almost magical ability to drag people back into the brightness of life without even realizing they were doing it.
During the second over, one eager boy bowled the tennis ball so incredibly badly that it slipped from his sweaty hand and rolled completely backward into the bushes behind him.
A few minutes later, another kid swung the wooden bat with such immense, wild force that he completely lost his balance, spun himself around in a perfect circle, and landed flat on his backside in the soft grass.
“𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘺!” the fallen child complained loudly, pouting, which only caused the surrounding kids to laugh ten times harder.
Then, a younger boy stepped up to the crease, proudly holding the cricket bat completely upside down, his hands placed awkwardly near the very bottom of the flat blade.
Garvit stood at mid-off, staring at the sight in absolute silence for a few seconds.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, shook his head, and finally walked over to the pitch.
“𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴,” he muttered quietly, kneeling down slightly as he reached out and manually adjusted the child’s small fingers, sliding them up to the wrapped handle and squaring his shoulders.
“Keep your eyes on the ball.”
The little boy’s eyes widened to the size of saucers as he felt the structural correction.
“𝘞𝘰𝘢𝘩… 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, bhaiya?”
Garvit almost scoffed at the absurdity of the question, stepping back into the field.
“𝘕𝘰. Not even close.”
But as he walked backward, the corner of his lips moved slightly upward.
It was a tiny movement.
Microscopic.
Almost completely invisible to the casual observer.
On the very next delivery, a little girl in a bright pink dress managed to connect with the ball, hitting a soft pop-fly straight toward the off-side.
Garvit didn’t even have to move; he simply extended his large hands and caught the tennis ball easily out of the air.
“𝘖𝘜𝘛!” the rest of the children screamed in unison, pointing at the pitch.
The little girl looked absolutely horrified, her lower lip trembling as she stared at Garvit with a profoundly offended expression.
“𝘕𝘖𝘖𝘖! That doesn’t count!”
Garvit stared at her heartbroken face for a brief, frozen moment.
He looked down at the ball in his hand, then back at her.
Without a word, he flipped his wrist and deliberately threw the ball wide of the wickets, letting it bounce away into the dirt.
“…𝘔𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥,” he said flatly, his voice deadpan.
“My hands slipped.”
The children caught on to the blatant lie instantly and burst into uncontrollable, rolling laughter.
Even Shakshi looked visibly surprised for a brief second from the sidelines.
Because in that single, fleeting moment—Garvit’s eyes didn’t look completely dead anymore.
They didn’t look empty.
Time passed slowly and beautifully after that.
Children ran around until their faces were flushed red, screaming at the top of their lungs.
At one point, a smaller child started crying after accidentally losing their turn to bat, creating a brief wave of chaos.
Two older boys nearly came to actual blows over who got to hold the premium wooden bat, before Shakshi swiftly intervened and smacked both of them lightly on the back of their heads.
“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵 for the rest of the month?” she threatened, raising an eyebrow.
Instant, absolute peace was restored to the courtyard.
Eventually, as the shadows grew long and thin across the dirt, the children grew completely exhausted.
They dropped the equipment and slowly wandered away toward the metal swings and the remaining snack trays, leaving Garvit standing entirely quietly in the dead center of the garden.
The familiar, heavy silence slowly crept back into the space.
And along with that silence—the crushing, familiar weight inside his chest returned with full force.
He walked slowly back toward the large banyan tree, but instead of sitting on the cement border, he lowered himself straight onto the cool grass.
He rested both of his hands behind his back, leaning his weight onto them as he stared blankly up at the sky, which was slowly turning into a brilliant shade of deep orange.
A few moments later, the grass rustled beside him.
Shakshi quietly sat down right next to him, pulling her knees up to her chest.
𝗙𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲, 𝗻𝗲𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗸𝗲 𝗮 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗹𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱.
Nearby, a small group of children were still giggling loudly over something completely stupid.
Across the path, an older caretaker was actively arguing with a stubborn toddler who was flatly refusing to drink his evening milk.
Somewhere near the fence line, a kid fell off the tire swing and immediately began loudly blaming the laws of gravity itself for his misfortune.
The ordinary world continued to turn naturally all around them, entirely unconcerned with their thoughts.
Then, Shakshi finally broke the quiet atmosphere, her voice soft but steady.
“𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 force yourself to 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦, Garvit?”
Garvit didn’t blink.
He kept his eyes locked entirely on the distant clouds.
“𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘥.”
There was absolutely no anger or resentment left in his voice.
𝗢𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗮 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱, bone-deep 𝗲𝘅𝗵𝗮𝘂𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.
“𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 light disappears… 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘴 behind.”
Shakshi turned her head slightly, looking at his sharp profile quietly.
“I know about what happened. I know you lost your closest friend.”
The words hit like a physical strike.
Garvit’s entire body went rigid, and he turned toward her sharply, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, sudden intensity.
But Shakshi completely ignored his aggressive reaction.
She didn’t flinch.
Instead, she slowly raised her arm and pointed across the courtyard toward a small, quiet girl who was sitting by herself on a bench, tightly hugging a doll with a completely missing arm.
“𝘞𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘳 Academy 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘰 𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥,” she explained, her voice dropping to a gentle whisper.
“𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 that happened back then. He told us why you transferred.”
Garvit’s jaw tightened, and he forcefully ripped his gaze away from her, looking back down at the grass between his knees.
“But you have to realize something, Garvit,” she continued softly.
“You have to eventually move on.”
“𝘕𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘙!”
The heavy word exploded out of his chest with violent, raw force, cutting through the peaceful afternoon air.
A few of the nearby children briefly turned their heads around at the sudden noise, staring curiously for a second, before turning back to continue their games.
Garvit’s fists clenched so hard into the dirt that his nails dug into the earth.
“𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 so easily?” he snapped, his voice trembling with a terrifying mixture of rage and sorrow.
“𝘔𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘧 𝘰𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘐’𝘮 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦! It means I’m choosing to forget him!”
His breathing became completely uneven, his chest heaving.
The grief and the anger had become so thoroughly entangled inside his soul over the last three years that even he could no longer tell where the sadness ended and the hatred began.
But Shakshi didn’t show an ounce of fear.
She didn’t back away from his volatile energy.
“𝘕𝘰,” she said softly, her voice steady as a rock in a storm.
“𝘐𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭.”
Her absolute calmness only served to irritate his frayed nerves even more.
“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦, Shakshi. You don’t know what it feels like.”
“𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 know your exact story,” she replied, a sad, knowing smile gracing her features.
“𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦.”
She extended her hand again, gesturing toward the entire crowded yard of children.
“𝘚𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 over there?”
Garvit’s eyes unconsciously followed her finger, his gaze landing on the laughing orphans.
“𝘔𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 they ever loved 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 ‘𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺’ 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴.”
Across the lawn, 𝗮 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗼𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗻, frayed 𝘀𝗹𝗲𝗲𝘃𝗲𝘀 laughed hysterically as he chased a stream of shimmering soap bubbles through the air.
A few feet away, another 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗱𝗹𝘆 raised his arms, showing everyone within arm’s reach a badly folded, crumpled paper airplane.
Near the main doorway, 𝗮 𝘁𝗶𝗻𝘆 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹 clung possessively to a middle-aged caretaker’s leg, refusing to let go even for a second.
“𝘈𝘴𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘳𝘺 themselves to sleep 𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵,” Shakshi whispered, her voice laced with a heavy weight.
“𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘰. Every single one of them.”
Her eyes softened completely as she watched them.
“𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 the time to 𝘩𝘶𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮… 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮… 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 small achievements…”
A faint, incredibly beautiful warmth appeared on her face.
“𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 the strength to 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦.”
Garvit remained absolutely silent, the words heavy in his ears.
“𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝙝𝙪𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙗𝙪𝙞𝙡𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧, 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙩. It doesn’t have to be just one.”
At that exact moment, a little boy suddenly broke away from the group and came running toward them full speed, proudly holding up a crumpled sheet of drawing paper.
Shakshi’s entire demeanor instantly brightened, her playful energy returning in a flash.
“𝘖𝘏! 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 all by yourself?”
The child nodded his head up and down excitedly, his eyes sparkling.
“𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘵!” she cheered, clapping her hands.
The boy beamed with absolute, pure pride before turning around and sprinting away to show someone else.
Garvit quietly watched the brief interaction unfold.
For the first time in a very long time, something fundamental inside his mind shifted slightly.
It wasn’t because he believed she was fully right about everything.
But it was because he could clearly see that she wasn’t wrong, either.
And that realization genuinely frightened him.
For months and months, his entire psychological existence had been meticulously built around a single, uncompromising belief:
If he ever allowed himself to smile again, then it meant his grief was fake.
If he ever laughed again, then it meant Jatin did 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 to him anymore.
But these children…
They laughed loudly every single day while carrying 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗿 𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗱𝘂𝗹𝘁𝘀 could ever survive.
And somehow—𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 for life 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗳𝗲𝗹𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹.
As the evening slowly approached, the golden sunlight began to fade, spreading long, deep purple shadows across the grass.
The caretakers began gathering the children, directing them inside for dinner.
“𝘋𝘪𝘥𝘪, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 soon!”
“𝘉𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 next time!”
“𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰𝘰!”
One of the older kids pointed dramatically straight at Garvit.
Garvit blinked, caught completely off guard.
Before he could even formulate a physical reaction or step back, two small boys suddenly rushed forward and wrapped their arms tightly around his waist in a fierce, sudden hug.
“𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, bhaiya!”
He froze completely solid.
For a long, awkward second, he didn’t even know what to do with his own hands, leaving them hovering uselessly in the air.
Then, slowly… clumsily… he lowered his large hands and patted their heads twice.
“…𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘩. Sure.”
The children let go, waving goodbye enthusiastically as they ran through the main doors, and the heavy iron orphanage gate slowly closed behind them with a definitive metallic clang.
Later that evening, while returning through the busy city streets, a dense but comfortable silence filled the small road between Garvit and Shakshi as the scooty hummed along.
The bright evening lights of the city slowly awakened around them, neon signs and streetlamps flickering to life.
People walked normally through their daily routines on the pavements, completely, blissfully unaware of the massive, violent emotional storms living inside the strangers passing right beside them.
When Shakshi finally pulled the scooty to a stop directly outside the gates of Garvit’s house, neither of them moved immediately.
Garvit removed his helmet quietly, holding it under his arm.
Then, Shakshi spoke, her voice incredibly soft in the quiet neighborhood street.
“𝘎𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘵.”
For the very first time since he had met her, her usual playful, mischievous expression disappeared completely, replaced by a profound seriousness.
”𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦’𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, you know.”
Garvit stayed completely silent, staring down at the scooter’s floorboard.
”𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴.” Her fingers tightened slightly over the rubber handlebar grips.
“𝘗𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰.”
She turned her head, looking up toward him gently.
“𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 about the ones they lost.”
Her voice became even quieter, almost swallowed by the evening breeze.
“𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵.”
Then, she offered him a faint, reassuring smile.
“𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧…”
Her eyes softened with a deep empathy.
“…𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘯𝘭𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 entire 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦.”
The heavy words settled deep inside his mind.
It didn’t happen loudly.
It didn’t happen with a dramatic burst of emotion.
It happened slowly, meticulously— like a gentle rain sinking into completely dry, cracked earth.
Then, just as quickly as the seriousness had come, Shakshi suddenly smirked again, revving the engine.
“𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦, 𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘰𝘵.”
Before he could even think of a proper retort, she kicked the scooter into gear and drove away into the night.
Garvit stood entirely alone outside his house, his eyes watching the small red tail light of her scooty slowly disappear around a distant corner.
After some time, he reached into his pocket and slowly pulled out his phone.
The wallpaper appeared instantly on the screen.
It was a photo of him and Jatin.
They were sitting at a small, crowded roadside tea stall.
Jatin was grinning like an absolute idiot, holding a tiny glass of hot chai precariously between his fingers.
Garvit remembered that exact day perfectly.
Jatin had literally forced him to skip an entire afternoon lecture just to drag him across town to try what he called a “𝗹𝗲𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗮𝗿𝘆 𝘁𝗲𝗮 𝗯𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗱.”
Usually, whenever he looked at this specific picture, it suffocated him.
It filled his entire being with a toxic wave of guilt, 𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗱, and bitter 𝗿𝗲𝗴𝗿𝗲𝘁.
But today… something felt profoundly different.
The pain was still there, completely intact.
The grief still existed in his chest.
But right alongside that pain—there was a faint, unmistakable layer of warmth, too.
Then—for the very first time in months—he allowed a smile to form on his face as he looked at the screen.
It was small.
Weak.
But completely real.
”𝘐𝘥𝘪𝘰𝘵…” he muttered softly to the empty street.
His eyes burned slightly with oncoming tears.
But this time, the tears didn’t feel like they were drowning him.
Maybe healing didn’t mean forcing yourself to forget.
Maybe healing simply meant learning how to carry the weight of your pain without letting it completely destroy everything else around you.
Maybe memories weren’t heavy iron chains meant to hold you back.
Maybe they were just proof that someone beautiful had once existed right beside you.
Garvit locked his phone, slipped it back into his pocket, and looked up at the vast, darkening night sky above his home.
The deep wound remained.
But now—there was a tiny, flickering warmth beside it.
And perhaps… 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗶𝗻𝘆 𝘀𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗺𝘁𝗵 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗵𝗶𝗺 𝘁𝗼 𝗸𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝘄𝗮𝗹𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱.