Day 4: Lake of Secrets
We borrowed Hari's cousin's bike — the rattling, oil-stained one that squealed every time it turned. It barely had brakes, but we laughed like maniacs the whole ride to the lake.
The lake was quieter than I remembered. The water smooth, silvered in the late afternoon sun. Trees leaned in as if guarding a secret they never told us back then.
We took off our slippers and sat at the edge, letting the coolness creep up our legs. We skipped stones, badly. Talked nonsense. Teased each other. Then silence took over — not the awkward kind, the kind that made room for memory.
Hari turned to me and said, "Do you think people really change?"
I paused. "Not always. But we remember differently. That's close."
He picked up another stone, but didn't throw it.
"I used to think I was your shadow," he said, quiet. "You had all the light."
I looked at him sharply. "What are you talking about?"
"Everyone liked you. You spoke well. Teachers smiled at you. I was just… beside you."
The words hurt. Not because they were true, but because I never saw it that way.
"You were the anchor," I said. "When I drifted, you held me. I just never said it."
He blinked, looked at the stone in his hand, and tossed it gently.
Neither of us spoke for a long time.
Day 5: The Teacher Who Believed
We brought flowers. Not because it was Teacher's Day, but because some people deserve flowers, always.
Ms. Joshi opened the door and gasped. "I thought you both disappeared into some hole in time!"
"In a way," I murmured, and she didn't question it.
We sat in her small living room, surrounded by books and the smell of filter coffee. She asked what we were doing now — we answered in half-truths and rewound nostalgia.
At some point, she looked at me and said, "You were always carrying something you never put down. I'm glad you seem lighter now."
I wanted to tell her everything — about the rewound clock, the looped morning, the ache of second chances.
But all I said was, "Thank you, ma'am. For seeing me."
She gave a soft smile. "You two were my brightest chaos."
When we left, Hari whispered, "She's the only adult who made us feel like we weren't wasting time."
"Maybe that's what teaching really is," I said.
Day 6: Our Only Song
We didn't have instruments. We didn't have lyrics. But we had Hari's humming, a steel water bottle for percussion, and a heart full of things unsaid.
We built a melody out of inside jokes. A rhythm from memory.
Hari wrote a line that made no sense:
"We met in reverse, and time forgot to argue."
I kept that line.
We recorded it on his phone. One messy take. Off-key, raw, beautiful. Laughter in the background. Floor creaks. A dog barking somewhere.
We called it "Still Us."
We knew no one would listen. But that wasn't the point.
The point was: we sang. Together. Still.
That night, on the school terrace, the stars burned quiet and close.
Hari said, "Tomorrow's the last day."
I nodded.
"We finish it, right?" he asked.
"No," I replied, smiling, "We live it."