The morning air smelt faintly of fresh paint and chalk dust—a sign of shuffled classes, new seating plans, and the start of 12th grade. For most, it was a day of fresh beginnings. For Shweta Rathi, it felt more like being dragged back into a world she had been running from for two whole years.

She pushed open the door to Class XII-B, the smell of jasmine from the school's garden trailing behind her. As usual, she made her way to the window seat—middle row, third bench. It had the perfect angle to sneak glances at the sky while dozing off and pretending to pay attention.

She dropped her bag, plopped down with a sigh, and leaned her head against her hand. The chatter in the room barely registered. New faces. Some old. And somewhere in the back of her mind, an echo of names she hadn’t spoken in a long time—Siddharth. Mohini. Ananya.

But today was about surviving, not remembering.

The bell rang, slicing through the haze of her daydream. Startled, she jolted awake. Her notebook slipped off her lap, hitting the floor with a soft thud.

“Ugh,” she muttered, bending down to retrieve it.

But another hand reached for it at the same time. A hand—clean, fair, veined like art carved into skin. Masculine. Steady.

“Here you go,” said a voice. Warm. Slightly amused. That kind of voice that makes your stomach flip without warning.

Shweta looked up.

The first thing she saw was light. Not the sun. Him.

Tousled brown hair that looked like it belonged in shampoo ads. Deep brown eyes that seemed to hold more than a few secrets. There was something... royal about him. Maybe it was the way he smiled—like he knew exactly how much effect he had on people.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

“Uh—thanks,” she managed.

“You must be really sleepy, huh?” he said, handing her the notebook.

“Oh, yeah. Totally,” she laughed awkwardly. “I was just… excited about school.”

His eyebrow quirked. “Excited enough to fall asleep in class? That’s a new one.”

Shweta shrugged. “My sleeping schedule is a mess right now. Summer break hangover.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I can definitely see that.”

There was a small pause. Not awkward. Comfortable. Like a leaf floating on calm water.

“I’m Arush, by the way. Arush Oberoi.”

Shweta blinked again. Even his name sparkled like it was plucked straight from a movie script.

“Shweta,” she said. “Shweta Rathi.”

“Nice to meet you, Shweta Rathi.” He smiled. “I guess I’ll be your seat partner for the year.”

Oh no. No. Way.

God had a twisted sense of humor. After two years of avoiding boys, fate decided to put this guy next to her? She laughed under her breath.

“What’s funny?” Arush asked, amused.

“Nothing, just… your name. It sounds like the lead in a TV drama. You know—Arush Oberoi, heir to the Oberoi empire,” she teased.

He grinned. “Guilty as charged. Should I start practicing my slow-motion entries?”

She smiled despite herself. It felt strange—easy—but strange. She hadn’t talked like this to a guy in ages. Not since…

Not since Siddharth.

And just as the thought crossed her mind, the classroom door creaked open. A figure stepped in. Taller. Broader. Familiar in a way that twisted her stomach.

Siddharth.

His eyes scanned the room briefly, landing on her like a silent storm. Time paused. Her heart jumped—and not the good kind. He looked different now. Older. Colder.

Their eyes met.

And just like that, the warmth of Arush’s smile vanished into a sudden chill.

To be continued...

The sound of footsteps echoed through the corridor—sharp, hollow, like they were chasing her. Shweta adjusted the strap of her backpack, eyes flicking across the familiar rows of lockers. The hallway hadn’t changed, but something in her had.

She turned a corner—and froze.

There he was.

Siddharth Verma.

Back from Los Angeles. Taller, jaw more defined, hair falling just enough into his eyes to look unbothered. But it was the coldness in his gaze that stopped her breath. It wasn’t just time that had passed. Something inside him had hardened.

And just like that, the air turned heavy.

In a blink, she was fifteen again.

The sound of feet on stairs. Laughter. A sharp scream.

Then—crash. Silence.

And Siddharth, towering over her, voice trembling with rage:

“You chose your cake over her. She reached out to you—where were you?”

That moment—the moment everything shattered—came back in fragments. She remembered the string lights swaying. The crowd screaming. Her hands sticky with frosting. Ananya’s tiny fingers stretching out.

Then nothing.

Just guilt. And Siddharth’s glare.

“Woah,” a voice interrupted her spiral.

Sahil. Her younger brother.

He stood beside her, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Siddharth too.

“He really came back.”

She nodded slowly. “When?”

“Last week. No one told me either. Guess we’re in for a ride.”

A bitter smile touched her lips. “We always are.”

Sahil hesitated. “Shweta… he still blames you.”

“I know.”

Before either could say more, a familiar, sing-song voice pierced the moment.

“Sahil! You ignored all my texts last night!”

Mohini.

The former best friend turned smiling backstabber. She clung to Sahil’s arm with forced sweetness, her eyes landing on Shweta like they were scanning for flaws.

“Oh. Shweta. Still around, huh?”

Fake concern curled her voice. “Wasn’t sure you’d survive another year with all those... past burdens.”

Shweta gave her a calm look. “Well, lucky for you—I did.”

Mohini’s smile faltered for a fraction. But she recovered quickly, flipping her hair as the warning bell rang.

Sahil gave Shweta a quiet squeeze on the shoulder and left. Mohini followed him, leaving Shweta alone.

Until a soft voice behind her spoke.

“You alright?”

She turned. Sashwat. Arush’s cousin, new to the school from Mumbai. Kind eyes. Easy presence.

“I’m fine,” she said automatically.

“You don’t look it.”

She offered a small shrug. “The past is heavier in this hallway.”

“Well,” he said with a faint smile, “maybe it’s time you let someone help you carry it.”

She blinked, surprised. He winked and walked away.

Flashback — Two Years Ago

Her 15th birthday. Lights, music, frosting on her hands. The perfect moment.

Then—

Ananya, barefoot, giggling, spinning down the spiral staircase.

“Slow down!” Shweta had shouted.

She’d turned to grab the cake knife when—

A scream.

A crash.

Silence. Panic. Blood.

Siddharth yelling over it all:

“She needed you! She reached out—and you chose your stupid cake!”

Shweta remembered the blur of paramedics, crying neighbors, and Siddharth’s eyes burning through her.

The rest was a blackout.

Her memory ended there.

Back to Present

Shweta stepped into Class XII-B. And of course—he was there.

Siddharth sat two rows behind her.

She could feel his gaze like a blade between her shoulders. But she didn’t turn. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

She slid into her window seat. Rolled her shoulders back.

The teacher entered. Roll call began.

“Siddharth Verma?”

“Present.”

His voice was deeper now, but still held that jagged edge.

The class shifted at the sound of his name. Whispers. Curiosity. But only a handful knew the truth—or thought they did.

Her hands curled into fists under the desk.

She wouldn’t fall apart.

Not again.

Later – Cafeteria

Shweta sat beside Sahil, half-heartedly tearing apart her sandwich.

“He hasn’t changed,” she muttered.

“He has,” Sahil said, watching Siddharth from a distance. “He’s just… worse now.”

“And Mohini?”

“Still poisoning minds, one whisper at a time.”

Shweta snorted. “Let her.”

Just then, a tray dropped onto the table beside her. Arush.

“Mind if I join?” he asked, already sitting.

“Go ahead,” she said, a little too fast.

“Cafeteria’s too loud for introverts like us,” he smiled.

“Oh? We’re introverts now?”

He grinned. “You, definitely. Me—only when I’m trying to impress mysterious window-seat girls.”

Shweta blinked, caught off-guard. Then laughed.

Her first real laugh in days.

Across the cafeteria, Siddharth watched. His eyes locked on her smile. On Arush.

And beneath the table, his hand curled into a tight fist.

To be continued...

Some silences are loud.

Like the one that dropped between Shweta and Siddharth every time they accidentally locked eyes.

Like the one that hung in shweta's mind each time she sees spiral stairs.

Shweta hadn’t walked down that kind of staircases in two years. She avoided it like it had teeth. But today, the corridor was blocked for maintenance, and she had no choice, but to take backside spiral stairs to go up the terrace, as the teacher assigned her some supplies to pick from there.

One step.

Another.

The polished wood creaked beneath her shoes. A rush of phantom memories hit her—music, her own laughter, frosting, screams.

She stopped halfway.

A child’s voice, echoing in her ears.

“sister! Wait—wait for me!”

Her breath caught.

No one was there.

But she could feel it.

That day. That exact second.

If only she had turned. If only—

“Still pretending it wasn’t your fault?”

She turned.

Siddharth. Leaning against the railing.

His face was unreadable, but the words cut deep.

“I’m not pretending,” she said evenly. “I don’t remember all of it.”

He scoffed. “Convenient.”

Her jaw tightened. “What do you remember?”

He looked away for a second—jaw clenched, something unreadable in his eyes.

“She reached for you,” he muttered. “She wanted you, not the cake, not the crowd. Just you.”

Shweta’s stomach twisted. “I know she did.”

“Then why didn’t you—” he stopped himself, exhaling sharply. “Forget it.”

A silence stretched between them.

She finally said, “I miss her too, Siddharth. She wasn't just your sister, but was important to us all as well.”

He stared at her like she had no right to say that. But he didn’t speak again.

He walked away.

Later – Library

Shweta sat curled in a corner, an untouched history book in her lap.

Opposite her, Arush was sketching lazily into the margins of his notebook. A butterfly. Then a clock. Then... a falling girl.

She blinked.

“Did you just draw—?”

“Don’t know,” he said, smiling crookedly. “Sometimes my hand moves faster than my brain.”

“Creepy.”

“Artistic,” he corrected.

“You don’t even know what you’re drawing?”

He shrugged. “Maybe my mind remembers things my eyes haven’t seen yet.”

She frowned, eyes flicking back to the falling girl on the page.

“Maybe that’s what I need,” she said. “A shortcut to remembering.”

“To remembering what?”

She hesitated. “What really happened to Ananya.”

Arush’s smile faded. “What do you mean?”

“I think my memory’s broken,” she whispered. “I don’t remember if she fell… or if someone pushed her. Or if I could’ve stopped it.”

He looked at her carefully, then asked, “Would it change anything?”

“Yes,” she said without pause. “Because I think I’ve been punishing myself for something I might not have done.”

Elsewhere – Sahil’s Room

Sahil and Sashwat were playing a video game when Sashwat let out a deep sigh.

“Hey! What’s with the long sigh?” Sahil asked, eyes glued to the screen, fingers moving fast.

Sashwat glanced at him seriously. “What’s going on between your sister and that transfer guy?”

Sahil’s fingers froze mid-game, letting his character take all the hits. “Why? Did something happen again?”

Confused, Sashwat raised an eyebrow. “Again? What do you mean?”

Sahil shrugged it off. “Huh? Nothing. Why are you asking?”

“It’s just... the whole classroom can feel the tension. The way he looks at her—it’s like he thinks she betrayed him. And also…”

He trailed off.

Sahil leaned in slightly. “Also what?”

“I saw her in the hallway earlier. She looked tense. When I asked her, she mentioned something about the past.”

Sashwat didn’t fully understand what she meant, but for some reason, he felt compelled to help her. His heart pulled him toward her.

He looked up at Sahil, genuinely hoping for answers.

Sahil didn’t hide the truth. “It was a misunderstanding. We used to be really close—tight-knit, all of us.”

“Until that night… her birthday turned into her worst nightmare. She hasn’t celebrated it since,” he said, his expression clouding with sorrow.

“It traumatized her so much, she can’t even remember the incident clearly. If only I could go back and change things.”

Sahil clenched his fists, feeling helpless.

Listening quietly, Sashwat muttered, “Maybe time travel is the solution.”

“Time travel?” Sahil stared at Sashwat like he’d lost his mind.

Sashwat nodded. “Not literal—not yet. But the brain does it. With memories. Triggers. Trauma. What if we could retrace the day—together?”

“Shweta barely talks about that day.”

“She doesn’t need to talk,” Sashwat said calmly. “She just needs to relive.”

“You’re being weird.”

Sashwat grinned. “You’ll get used to it.”

Sahil frowned. “What exactly are you planning?”

“Not planning,” Sashwat said. “But if her mind is blocking something out… maybe she needs help unlocking it.”

Evening – Shweta’s Room

She lay in bed, eyes wide open. Ananya’s photo sat by her nightstand.

“Did I fail you?” she whispered.

She remembered the candlelight. Her hand reaching for the knife to cut the cake. The hum of the crowd counting down—

“Ten, nine, eight…”

Then nothing.

She reached for her journal. Flipped to a blank page. Scribbled:

I saw her reach out. But I didn’t move. Why?

She tapped the pen twice. Then another sentence:

What if someone else was closer to her than me?

Elsewhere – A Flashback Fragment

A little girl’s feet on stairs. A hand reaching out. A taller shadow moving behind her.

A voice whispering:

“Don’t tell anyone, okay? It’ll be our secret.”

Then—

A fall.

To be continued...