She stood near the old tree. The one just outside the school gate, where people either said goodbye or didn't. Some ran off, laughing. Others lingered like the day owed them something. Niya was doing neither.
She was waiting.
Aarav noticed it the moment he stepped out, late again because he had helped the librarian arrange the old magazines. He liked the silence of that room. It never asked him to explain why he was there. But this silence, outside, was different. It was stretched thin between her standing there and him, suddenly unsure if he should walk faster or pretend he didn't see her.
But she waved.
"You're always late," she said, as he neared. Not annoyed. Just observing.
Aarav nodded. He didn't know what to say to that, so he adjusted the strap of his bag.
"Can we walk?" she asked.
Not "Do you want to?" Not "Are you free?" Just a quiet certainty. Like the moment had already been decided.
They started walking along the cracked pavement. She kicked a pebble. It bounced, skipped, then stopped as if it, too, had nowhere else to be.
"You know," she said, after a few seconds, "everyone always says walking home is boring unless you're with someone who talks a lot."
He looked at her. She smiled.
"I'm not sure if you're the talk-a-lot kind, Aarav."
He almost replied, almost said something smart or funny, but the truth caught him first. "I think... I just write a lot in my head."
She didn't laugh. She didn't tease. She just nodded. "That's a good answer."
They walked past a small house with fading yellow walls. Wind chimes danced above its entrance. She pointed at it.
"I used to think wind chimes were magical," she said. "Like if they rang when you walked by, it meant something good was going to happen."
Aarav looked up. They rang.
"Now I think it's just wind," she added with a grin.
He smiled. He wanted to say, Maybe it's both. Maybe some winds bring stories. But it felt too heavy to say out loud.
So instead, he asked, "Why were you waiting for me?"
She stopped walking for a second, looked at the sky like it held the answer.
"I don't know. I just thought... you walk alone too much."
His throat tightened.
It was one of those statements people throw into the world casually, unaware that it lands like a paper-cut in the soul.
He looked down at his shoes. "I think... I got used to it."
She started walking again. "That's a sad thing to get used to."
And just like that, it wasn't a walk home anymore. It was a soft rebellion against loneliness. An accidental beginning.
---
That evening, Aarav wrote without stopping.
The pen moved like it had something urgent to say. The words weren't big or poetic. They were warm. Like hands that had held sunlight.
"Today, someone waited. Not because they had to. Not because they were bored. But because they saw me. I don't know how to explain that in a story. But I think maybe, that's what every story tries to become."
---
The next morning, his parents argued again. About fees, future, and marks that weren't enough. His mother looked at him like he was late to some invisible train. His father didn't speak much. Just sighed.
"You're always scribbling," his mother said, looking at his notebook.
He didn't argue.
"We're not saying you can't write. Just do it after you're successful," his father said.
That line stuck with him longer than it should have.
After you're successful.
As if art could be boxed in afterthoughts.
As if dreams had to wait in line behind expectations.
He didn't speak. He just nodded.
---
Later that week, Niya asked him again, "Want to walk?"
Every time she asked, it felt like a thread being tied gently around his wrist.
Yuvaan once teased, "You two are becoming a walking novel."
Aarav laughed. But somewhere inside, he hoped the pages wouldn't end too soon.
Sometimes they didn't talk at all during the walks. Just walked. But the silence didn't weigh them down. It was shared. Like a blanket on a cold day. It didn't warm you completely. But it helped you believe warmth still existed.
---
One evening, she said, "You ever feel like the world is running in a direction you don't want to go?"
He replied, "Every day."
She chuckled. "You say things like they're obvious. Like everyone knows. But they don't."
Aarav wanted to say, That's because I write for people who don't say these things out loud. But instead, he just said, "Maybe that's why we walk slower."
She nodded, like she understood more than he said.
---
That night, he stared at his notebook for hours.
"Some people come into your life like quiet answers to loud questions. You don't remember when they arrived. But you feel the silence they take away."
His parents still didn't understand why his test marks were dipping.
His teachers said he was "potentially distracted."
Only Yuvaan knew something was changing. But he didn't joke about it much anymore. Just raised his eyebrows whenever Aarav walked out of class slower than usual, as if to say She's waiting again? and Aarav would pretend not to notice.
But he noticed everything.
The way Niya fixed her sleeve while waiting. The way she spoke with pauses, not fillers. The way she said his name softer than anyone else.
She never called him genius. Never said he was special. She just walked beside him.
And that, somehow, was louder than any praise.
---
One day, while they stood near the same tree, she said, "You know what's funny? My friends think I'm weird for walking with you. They say you're too serious. Too quiet."
He waited for the punchline. Some joke about how she agreed with them.
Instead, she added, "But I like that. It's like... you make the world feel slower."
He didn't know what to say.
So he just replied, "I think maybe, you help me believe the world doesn't hate slow people."
She laughed. Not loud. But real.
He wanted to write that sentence down immediately. But he didn't. Some lines are better kept like secrets.
---
Weeks passed. They kept walking.
Some days, he reached early, hoping she'd wait. Some days, she reached late, smiling apologetically. Some days, they said nothing. But he'd write pages about those nothings.
Until one day, she said, "I might not wait tomorrow."
He asked why.
She shrugged. "I don't want you to think I always will."
He nodded.
But that night, he wrote:
"She waited once. That was enough for a lifetime of poems."
---
Back in his room, under the dim desk lamp, he wondered how to explain to the world that some of the most meaningful chapters in life are the ones without confessions, without dramatic declarations, without holding hands.
Sometimes, a shared sidewalk is enough.
Sometimes, a girl waiting near a tree rewrites the meaning of the word noticed.
And sometimes, even when they stop waiting, the moment stays. Not because it lasted long, but because it arrived at all.
So he wrote the sentence that would stay with him longer than most:
"Maybe we don't fall in love with people. Maybe we fall in love with how they made time feel when they were beside us."