Every morning at exactly 8:10, the city bus stopped near the old banyan tree.
And every morning, Aarohi sat by the window, pretending not to look at the same boy.
His name—she learned later—was Ishaan.
He stood at the stop with his backpack hanging from one shoulder, earphones always in, eyes calm like he wasn't rushing anywhere even though the bus was already late. The first time their eyes met, Aarohi looked away so fast her heart forgot how to beat properly.
She told herself it was nothing. Just a boy. Just a bus stop.
But then it happened again. And again.
One rainy morning, the bus was unusually crowded. Aarohi struggled to hold the railing when suddenly the bus jerked forward. She almost fell—until a hand caught her wrist.
"Careful," a voice said.
She looked up. Ishaan.
For a second, the noise of the bus disappeared. All she noticed was how gently he let go, like he was afraid of holding on too long.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He smiled. Not a big one. Just enough to stay with her the whole day.
From then on, small moments became everything.
Sometimes he saved her a seat.
Sometimes she noticed he waited to get off until she stood up.
They never talked much—just a few words, shy smiles, quiet glances.
Aarohi was falling in love silently.
Then one day, he didn't come.
The bus stopped. People got on. Time passed.
But Ishaan wasn't there.
The next day, still no Ishaan.
The third day, her chest felt heavy for no reason she could explain to anyone.
On the fourth day, she finally gathered courage and asked the conductor,
"Did a boy used to get on here… tall, quiet?"
The conductor shrugged. "College exams maybe. Or job. City swallows people fast, madam."
That night, Aarohi cried—not loudly, but the kind of crying that feels like losing something you never officially had.
Weeks passed.
She stopped sitting by the window.
Then one evening, while returning late, the bus stopped at the same banyan tree. Aarohi wasn't paying attention—until someone said softly,
"You still almost fall when the bus moves."
Her breath caught.
Ishaan stood there, older somehow, tired eyes but the same calm smile.
"Where did you go?" she asked, the question escaping before fear could stop it.
"My mother was sick. We went to our village," he said. "I thought… maybe you'd forget me."
"I didn't," she said immediately. Then blushed. "I mean—"
He smiled wider this time.
They talked the entire ride. About college. About dreams. About how strange it was that two people could care so deeply without realizing when it began.
When her stop came, she stood up reluctantly.
"Aarohi," he said, saying her name for the first time. "Can I walk you home tomorrow?"
She nodded, heart racing. "Only if you promise not to disappear again."
"I promise," he said. "Some stops are meant to change your life."
And as the bus drove away, Aarohi realized—
Sometimes love doesn't arrive loudly.
Sometimes it simply waits at the same stop, every day, hoping you'll look back.