Aarav hadn't intended to top the class.
He hadn't even known there was a surprise literature test that week. When Mrs. Fernandes casually announced it on Wednesday, most of the class groaned like it was a personal betrayal. Kabir whispered a dramatic "Et tu, Ma'am?" and received a withering glare in return.
Aarav had simply blinked. Then pulled out a pen.
What followed was not brilliance.
It was honesty.
---
The essay prompt was broad, almost lazy: "What does it mean to learn?"
Most students regurgitated clichés. Others rushed quotes from textbooks. A few tried to sound philosophical and ended up sounding like inspirational posters.
Aarav didn't try to impress.
He wrote about forgetting his brother's voice.
About the silence between people and what it teaches us.
About Suhani's sketchpad.
Kabir's questions.
His own cowardice.
And how sometimes, learning wasn't about acquiring answers—just finding the right questions to stay with.
He finished five minutes before time.
Didn't reread.
Didn't even think about it again.
Until Friday morning.
---
"Aarav Mehta," Mrs. Fernandes called out, eyebrow raised. "Ninety-three. Highest in class."
The room froze.
Then slowly turned.
Twenty-five heads tilted in disbelief. Even Kabir did a double take.
Aarav blinked.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
Mrs. Fernandes smirked. "Are you?"
He opened his mouth.
Then shut it.
Kabir leaned over and whispered, "I hate how you did this without trying."
Aarav whispered back, "I hate that I kind of liked it."
They both grinned.
And for the first time, the laughter around Aarav didn't feel like something thrown at him.
It felt shared.
---
That same week, the school announced an interschool event—"Symphony of Minds"—a collaborative competition that required teams of two to create a combined science-literature presentation.
Most students paired up immediately.
Aarav hadn't even thought about joining.
Until Kabir dropped his tray beside him at lunch and said, "You and me. We're doing it."
Aarav raised an eyebrow. "That's not how consent works."
"You owe me."
"For what?"
"For tolerating your entire personality."
Aarav smirked. "Fine. But I'm not writing a poem about quantum physics."
Kabir grinned. "You will when you hear my idea."
---
They met after school for brainstorming.
Aarav had forgotten how fun it was to be around Kabir when the masks were off.
No loud competition. No passive-aggressive banter. Just the rhythm of two people trying to make something interesting.
Kabir's idea was simple but ambitious: "Time is a story."
He'd explain time dilation, relativity, and perception.
Aarav would write a narrative that wove through it—a fictional letter from a boy to his future self, scattered across moments.
"Like time-travel but poetic," Kabir said.
"Like heartbreak with physics," Aarav added.
They high-fived. Then immediately regretted how awkward it looked.
---
Over the next week, they worked in empty classrooms, under stairwells, on the roof during lunch.
Kabir brought energy.
Aarav brought depth.
Together, they built something that felt oddly like friendship.
One evening, as they packed up, Kabir said, "You know, I used to think being the best meant winning."
"And now?"
"Now I think it just means showing up. And not doing it alone."
Aarav looked at him, then said, "You talk like a therapist who charges too much."
Kabir laughed. "You write like someone who needs one."
They walked home together, not saying much more.
They didn't need to.
---
At the competition, they didn't win first place.
They came second.
But their presentation received a standing ovation.
Aarav stood on that auditorium stage, holding his half of the certificate, heart thudding not with fear—but pride.
It wasn't the applause that mattered.
It was the way he felt.
Solid.
Seen.
Sincere.
---
Back at school the next day, juniors he barely knew nodded at him in the hallway.
Mrs. Fernandes gave him a small, proud nod in class.
And during lunch, Suhani handed him a folded piece of paper.
He opened it.
A sketch.
Him and Kabir on stage, one talking, the other writing. A spotlight shaped like a clock falling over them both.
At the bottom, she'd written:
> "Sometimes, the ones who stay silent longest… end up having the most to say."
---
That night, Aarav opened his notebook and wrote:
> *"I didn't want to be the best.
I just didn't want to feel invisible.
Today, I wasn't.
Not because I shouted.
But because I listened.
Maybe that's how stories start.
Not with noise.
But with attention."*