The rhythm of the school year shifted, and so did Aryan's daily routine. Due to a change in his parents' schedule, he switched to a different bus route. The new route felt unfamiliar and quiet. When the bus hissed to a stop outside his house, he sprinted out, relieved to see the mostly empty seats, only recognizing Raju sitting a few rows ahead. He settled into the seat just behind him.
The journey was slow, punctuated by the driver's periodic announcements. As they neared the last stop, someone near him shouted a bored question about their arrival time.
"One more stop," the driver called back.
The bus pulled up outside a cream-colored house framed by a burst of bougainvillea. Aryan barely glanced up, lost in his thoughts about the upcoming science test. A figure boarded and settled into the empty seat directly beside him.
He initially registered the person as a generic girl, someone he didn't know, and out of ingrained teenage shyness, he kept his gaze locked out the window. He was determined not to look.
Then she spoke—a quick, cheerful greeting to the driver. That sweet, familiar voice cut through his distraction like a bell.
He slowly turned his head. It wasn't just a girl. It was Ayra.
A ridiculous, overwhelming wave of pure, simple luck washed over him. She was on his bus route now? It was the luckiest day of the year, possibly of his young life.
The bus became their daily, moving sanctuary. They talked about everything: school politics, silly arguments with teachers, the next volume of Naruto. Their friendship deepened rapidly, crossing the unspoken line from casual to close. They began sharing things, small tokens of trust.
One rainy afternoon, as they huddled at the back of the bus, Ayra pulled a bright red wrapper from her pocket. "Try this," she commanded, peeling back the paper. "It's the best."
It was a cheap, syrupy ice candy—something Aryan's strict, health-conscious family had forbidden. He hesitated, but Ayra's expectant smile was impossible to deny. He took a bite. The rush of cold sugar was electrifying, a sharp, childish pleasure he had never known.
"This is amazing," he grinned, sticky and surprised.
"See?" she said, bumping his shoulder lightly. "There's a whole world outside textbooks, Aryan."
That moment—the illicit sweetness of the candy, the effortless shared laughter—defined their connection. Their friendship was evergreen, continuing even as the academic year faded. They studied together, performed well on their exams, and the summer break was finally declared.
Then came the unexpected, cruel twist of the river.
April 24th, 2012. That date hammered itself into Aryan's memory like a nail. Ayra simply vanished.
The bus arrived at the cream-colored house, but Ayra never boarded. He waited. He hoped. Day after day, the seat beside him remained painfully empty. He didn't know why she was gone, or where she went. The silence of her absence was deafening.
He transferred to a new school the following year, a decision made by his parents to align with his ambitious university goals. He tried to focus on his studies, pouring himself back into the rigid schedule of Chapter 1. But Ayra's memory burned—not just the girl, but the sense of completeness he felt with her.
He rationalized it as missing a beautiful friendship, but deep down, a profound, aching loneliness had taken root. He held onto a fierce, irrational hope: I will see her again.
Aryan didn't realize it yet, but that feeling—that gnawing emptiness, that desperate, illogical hope—was the true, undeniable birth of love. He was separated from his compass, and the boat of his life, which he intended to steer so carefully, had just drifted into a sea of uncertainty.