The last paper ended, and suddenly the relentless rhythm of exams—waking, studying, testing, repeating—was gone. A strange stillness replaced the daily tension; it was as if the world itself had stopped to exhale. For the first time in months, my mornings weren't filled with alarm bells and hurried revision, but with an emptiness I didn't quite know how to fill.
The year 2020 brought an unprecedented silence to the world. The sudden arrival of the coronavirus pandemic closed schools, emptied streets, and locked all of us within the confines of our homes. The nation was gripped by a strict lockdown beginning March 25th, and life shifted online overnight.
Classes moved onto screens, lessons replaced by pixels on glowing devices. Phones and laptops became lifelines—not just for education but for human connection.
I drifted through the days, the clock ticking slowly, every hour drawn out by the anticipation and worry gnawing quietly at the back of my mind. The question of results hummed in the air like static: Was it enough? Did that last answer matter?
Loneliness crept in. I found myself wandering more often to my phone screen, searching for any distraction—a voice, a memory, a fragment of the life I had set aside.
Almost on instinct, I decided to make a new Instagram account. My old self—nervous and unsure—clicked through the sign-up. A blank profile became a tiny window back into connections I missed. With hesitant fingers, I searched for familiar names from the past. Kaustub, with his easy grin; Sneha, whose stories always carried some gentle mischief. And then, Gayatri—her username lighting up my screen with unexpected warmth.
Slowly, old bonds reawakened. We each carried the wounds and victories of the exam battle, but together, the waiting felt lighter. Our chats became lifelines—memes traded in the middle of the night, confessions about silly mistakes on the papers, hopes about what the scores might hold.
Group chats sprang up, voices overlapping in the digital space—a flood of emojis, late-night voice notes, and playful arguments about who messed up which section worst. The waiting room of our lives, so empty only days before, was now filled with laughter that chased away the silence.
And whenever anxiety tightened its grip, a single message from one of them—sometimes a joke from Kaustub, sometimes a supportive line from Sneha or Gayatri—was enough to remind me: I wasn't waiting alone.
Gayatri and I stayed in touch through countless chats, sharing stories of boredom and hope, memes that brought smiles, and whispered conversations that bridged the physical distance between us.
This uncertain, in-between time became less about the results to come, and more about rediscovering the friendships and joy I thought I'd forgotten.
As partial unlocks began, it was during this period when Gayatri and I decided to meet.
We decided to meet at mall, The mall was different from before—capacity was limited, entry guarded by thermal screenings, and hand sanitizers stood sentinel at every entrance. Shoppers moved slowly, whispers replacing laughter, and a strange quietness settled over the once bustling corridors.
I arrived early, uncertain and nervous, my mind flickering with memories of recent months—the isolation, the shared loneliness, and the growing warmth of our friendship online.
The sun filtered softly through the mall's glass ceiling, casting scattered beams across the polished floors. The once bustling corridors felt tranquil, a careful hush settling over the space as few shoppers moved slowly, cautious and mindful.
I stood near the entrance, heart pounding like a restless drumbeat. Months had passed since our last meeting, yet the digital closeness we'd built during lockdown couldn't erase the nerves tightening in my chest. My palms felt clammy against the cool surface of my jeans.
Then, from the crowd, I saw her—Gayatri. Her eyes met mine instantly, sparkling despite the mask concealing the smile beneath. For a moment, time slowed. I noticed the delicate way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the subtle curve of her brow in quiet anticipation.
We took hesitant steps toward one another, each movement heavy with the weight of unspoken words and shared memories. A shy, almost fragile smile tugged at her lips as she finally broke the distance.
"It's really you? Chashmis," she whispered, voice a soothing balm to my jittery mind.
My reply came soft, "It feels like forever." as my spectacles was gone
We closed the space between us doing handshake, careful not to rush or overwhelm. The brief contact sparked a warmth that chased away the months of loneliness, weaving a fragile bridge between past and present.
"We should grab a coffee," Gayatri suggested, glancing around. "Find somewhere quiet?"
Nodding, I followed her carefully—each step easing the tension as conversation bloomed. We settled into a cozy corner of a small café, two cups steaming between us.
As I traced the rim of my cup, Gayatri shared stories of lockdown days—boredom, fear, and the little joys hidden in small routines. I found myself letting go of the lingering anxieties, drawn into the gentle cadence of her voice.
When I laughed at her joke about hoarding sanitizers, our eyes met and held, a silent promise shimmering in their depths. For a moment, the world beyond the glass walls faded to nothing. Here, in this quiet café, amid the soft clatter of cups and whispers of other patrons, something tender took root—an unspoken beginning wrapped in the warm glow of reunion.
After finishing their coffee, Gayatri and I wandered deeper into the mall, stepping into the buzzing gaming zone where colorful lights flashed and laughter echoed. She challenged me to a game, her playful grin winning easily, and I couldn't help but laugh at my own clumsy attempts. The atmosphere was light and carefree—a sharp contrast to the months of lockdown.
We moved on to browse shops, taking in the familiar displays with fresh eyes. Gayatri paused at a window, pulling out a vibrant scarf and holding it up to her face. "What do you think?" she asked, eyes twinkling. I nodded, admiring how she seemed brighter, more confident somehow. I noticed too—she noticed too—that I no longer wore my spectacles, my face carrying a new glow, a quiet change that time etched gently.
Outside the mall, we broke into a spontaneous run, racing with the joy of a newly regained freedom. We stopped at a street vendor and shared hot, crispy samosas, their spicy aroma filling the evening air. Sitting on the steps, half laughing and half catching our breath, we talked about all the struggles—the endless tests, the lockdown loneliness, the moments we thought we'd never get through.
Gayatri's smile, warm and steady, settled deep inside me. For the first time in a long while, I felt truly seen, truly accompanied. Sharing that samosa, under the growing dusk, I realized that the years weren't just passing—they were bringing us closer. At sixteen, our past struggles wove silently into a new companionship, and in her smile, I found a certainty: I was not alone.
As the evening breeze swept softly around us, signaling the close of our day together, I hesitated but then said, "I'll walk you home. It's not far, right?"
Gayatri paused, a shadow flickering across her face. Then she looked up, eyes gentle but serious. "Actually, I've moved," she said quietly. "I don't live near the coaching classes anymore. I've shifted to Chakan."
The words hit me like a sudden gust. "Chakan? Seriously?" I blurted, disbelief coloring my voice.
She nodded, biting her lip. "Yeah. It's a bit far, I know. But… I thought it was best. With everything going on—the pandemic—it was safer there."
My mind raced. The risk she had taken—to come so far just to meet me during such uncertain times—struck me deeply. In that moment, her quiet courage outshone any fear or doubt. The miles between us suddenly felt both longer and smaller, tied together by the strength of her choice and the bond we were building.
I looked at her, amazed by the depths beneath her calm, and realized more than ever that this friendship—our connection—was worth every step, every risk. That day, i realise there is someone who is there for me.
Slowly 2nd lockdown arrives and the days became same, Finally, The day the results arrived
To be continued...!