The scent of chalk dust hung in the air. Sunlight poured through the tall windows of Class 3-B, landing in golden stripes on the tiled floor. Maya sat at her desk, her tiny legs swinging just above the ground, a pencil tucked behind her ear like she’d seen her teacher do.

Beside her sat a new boy—quiet, with sleepy eyes and a name that hadn’t yet settled into anyone’s memory.

Kian.

He didn’t say hello. Neither did she.

Instead, she peeked at him from the corner of her eye, noting how he folded his hands so properly on the desk, not fidgeting like the others. His water bottle was shaped like a football. That made her smile. A little.

Midway through math, she slid a strawberry candy across the desk without a word.

Kian blinked at it, then looked at her.

"It's not poisoned," she whispered.

He blinked again. Then smiled. A quiet one, like hers.

From that moment, something small but certain settled between them.

During recess, while the rest of the kids shouted and ran around chasing rubber balls, Maya sat on the back steps, munching on her chapati roll. Kian approached, hands in pockets.

"You don't like running?" he asked.

"Only if I’m chasing butterflies," she said, licking chutney from her finger.

"That's weird."

"You're weird," she replied with a shrug.

But she scooted over a little, making space.

He sat.

That’s how they became friends.

Days turned to weeks.

They never declared their friendship, never shook hands or shared friendship bands like the other kids. But somehow, everyone knew—Maya and Kian were always together.

They shared tiffins without asking. When she forgot her crayons, he pushed his box silently toward her. When he misplaced his eraser, she slid hers across.

Once, Maya tripped on the stairs and scraped her knee. Before she could even cry, Kian knelt beside her and dug a crumpled tissue from his pocket.

"It's clean—I think."

She sniffled, wiped her eyes, and muttered, "Thanks."

He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t leave either.

One cloudy afternoon, as monsoon thunder growled faintly in the distance, their class was told to draw their favorite thing.

Maya sketched a mango tree with a tire swing.

Kian drew a messy rocket ship.

When she leaned over to see, he covered it with his hand.

"It’s not done yet."

"It looks like a flying onion," she giggled.

"Does not!"

"Okay, okay. It’s a handsome onion."

He tried not to smile.

Failed.

During morning assembly, Maya stood in the second row, fidgeting with her plaits. Kian stood behind her. When her hair tie came loose and fluttered to the ground, he picked it up and tied it again—clumsily, but he tried.

She turned, a little surprised.

"It looks like a bird’s nest."

"Well, birds are nice," he replied.

"Hmm… thank you, nest boy."

He rolled his eyes, but his ears turned a little .

There were moments, small ones, where their personalities poked out like curious seedlings from the soil.

Maya was talkative when she felt safe, often drawing suns with smiley faces and asking odd questions like,

"Do clouds get tired?"

Kian, quieter, more observant, would reply,

"Maybe they sleep when it rains."

He liked things neat.

She liked chaos in colors.

She once used his ruler as a sword to fight imaginary dragons.

"That's for measuring!"

"It’s also for saving the kingdom," she replied, brandishing it.

He sighed but let her win.

One Friday, the teacher paired them for a group project—making a model of a tree using old newspapers.

"But trees are green," Kian frowned.

"Imagination," Maya whispered.

Together, they created something between a palm tree and a dinosaur tail.

When they presented it, Kian spoke exactly five words:

"We made this. It's okay."

The class laughed.

Maya bowed dramatically.

Sometimes, they'd get scolded. Once, for giggling during prayer. Another time, for scribbling on the last page of each other’s notebooks.

But they never got truly angry.

Maya might sulk, turning her chair slightly away.

Kian would slide a doodle her way—always something silly: a frog in a crown, or a cat with her pigtails.

She’d try not to smile.

Failed.

Their friendship was quiet, steady.

Like two puzzle pieces that didn’t make a big picture—but fit anyway.

And even though they were just kids, there was something comforting about their bond. Like knowing where your slippers are. Or always having your favorite candy tucked in your pocket.

They didn’t know how rare it was.

Not yet.

But in that small classroom with chalk dust in the air and laughter pressed between lessons—they had something soft.

Something real.

Something beginning.

✧ Poem: The First Spark ✧

A candy shared, a silent seat,

Two tiny hearts that quietly meet.

A ribbon tied with clumsy grace,

A smile found in a pencil case.

No promises, no plans ahead,

Just chalk-stained fingers, words unsaid.

And in a world too big to see,

They made a space for you and me.

!

The sun was bright and stubborn, making the streets shimmer with heat. It was one of those lazy summer afternoons when the world felt slower—except for two kids wandering along the edge of a dusty lane, sandals slapping against the hot road, voices bubbling with excitement.

Maya held a half-filled bottle of Rooh Afza, the sticky red syrup already making her fingers tacky. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat, but her eyes sparkled like she was on a secret mission.

“You walk like a sleepy snail,” she teased, glancing back at him.

Kian, trailing behind, poked the ground with a stick he’d picked up earlier, aiming at small clumps of grass and wandering ants. “I’m walking with style,” he said proudly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Yeah yeah. ‘Style,’” she muttered with a grin. “More like slow-motion snail style.”

He didn’t respond. He was busy chasing a shadow that looked like a frog.

They had grown a little taller since their third-grade days, but their bond had only gotten sillier. Though they didn’t live in the same colony, their homes were just a ten-minute walk apart—close enough that Maya could sneak out with an excuse like “going to get bread,” and Kian could say he was “returning a tiffin.”

They had met in third grade, and now, two whole years later, they had their own inside jokes, hideouts, and a shared plan for the summer: to find a secret place.

“A real one,” Maya had said last week, pointing at the sky with a candy stick in her mouth. “With broken walls, grass taller than our knees, and maybe even a mango tree.”

“Also ghosts,” Kian had whispered dramatically. “Every real secret place has a ghost.”

“Then you can be it,” Maya replied.

—

That afternoon, their hunt had led them behind an old water tank near a temple. Beyond a broken fence and some wild weeds, they discovered a crumbling wall with faded yellow paint.

“This is it!” Maya whispered, eyes wide. “We found it!”

“It’s... perfect,” Kian breathed, stepping carefully through the gap. “Like a secret fort.”

Inside, the place was quiet, save for the distant chirping of birds and the whirr of cicadas. There were bricks scattered across the floor, moss climbing up the walls, and—true to Maya’s vision—a mango tree standing right in the middle of it all, half-leaning like it had grown tired over the years.

It wasn’t very big—just the remains of what might have been a small outhouse or an abandoned shed—but to them, it was a world.

Maya spun around like a ballerina, arms stretched. “It’s ours!”

Kian climbed onto a fallen log like it was a throne. “I declare myself King of MangoLand!”

“More like the frog prince,” Maya teased, tossing a leaf at him.

They laughed, loud and free, the kind of laugh only kids can have when they know they won’t be called inside anytime soon.

“Let’s bring snacks next time,” Kian said, now lying on the ground and looking up at the leaves. “And comics.”

“And a blanket,” Maya added. “It’ll be our secret world.”

The ground smelled of old dust and mango bark. Somewhere nearby, a bee hummed past. They found a broken bucket and turned it into a table. Maya balanced a flat brick on top. Kian placed his stick on it like a sword.

“We need rules,” Maya said, tapping the side of her bottle.

“Rule one,” Kian declared, “no grown-ups allowed.”

“Rule two: if one of us is sad, the other has to bring candy.”

“Rule three: we protect this place no matter what.”

They sealed their promise with a pinky swear.

—

Later, they lay side by side under the tree. Maya braided strands of dry grass while Kian tried to catch a ladybug crawling on his shirt.

“Do you think we’ll be best friends forever?” Kian asked suddenly, fingers laced behind his head.

Maya blinked at the sky, quiet for a moment. “Of course,” she said softly. “Why not?”

Kian turned his head to look at her. “I dunno. People always say kids forget stuff when they grow up.”

“I’m not people,” she said, sitting up. “I’m Maya. I don’t forget things that matter.”

He smiled, relieved. “Good.”

The sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting speckled patterns on their faces. For a moment, the world felt golden and still.

“I’ll write our names somewhere here,” Maya said. She pulled out a chalk bit from her pocket—stolen from school, naturally—and scribbled near the old wall:

M + K \= Secret Place

Kian watched in silence, then added a smiley face beside it.

—

They stayed there for what felt like hours, talking nonsense, making more rules, giving names to the ants—like ‘Mr. Sharma’ for the math teacher who always gave surprise tests, and ‘Miss Teekhi’ for the neighbor who always complained about their cricket ball hitting her wall.

As the sun started dipping low, the air cooled a little. Long shadows stretched across their feet.

“We should go,” Maya said, brushing dirt off her shorts. “Mum will ask why it took me so long to get bread.”

“And mine will say I’ve been ‘returning the tiffin’ for too long,” Kian replied, rolling his eyes.

They both stood, reluctant.

“You’ll come tomorrow?” Maya asked.

“Only if you bring candy,” he said with a smirk.

She kicked a pebble at him. “I’ll bring jalebi.”

“And I’ll bring comics. The spooky ones.”

As they walked home together, side by side, they passed the street dogs lounging under scooters, vegetable vendors closing for the day, and aunties on balconies calling their kids for dinner.

No one called them back, no one hurried them. It was one of those rare days that felt like it might stay in their pockets forever, like candy wrappers they didn’t want to throw away.

—---------------------------------------------

Poem: The Place Only We Knew

In the arms of summer, we found a gate,

A crumbling wall, a twist of fate.

With mango trees and silent stone,

We made a world to call our own.

No one else could hear the call,

Of leaves that danced or bricks that fall.

We whispered dreams the winds once blew,

In a place only we two knew.

The summer holidays had come to a close, and with it, the gentle warmth of lazy afternoons at their hideout faded into memory. The new academic year had begun. Maya and Kian were now in the fifth grade. Their old classroom had been left behind, and like every year, a new one awaited them — newer desks, new seating arrangements, and new faces.

But not everything was new.

The bond they had grown over the past two years remained—firm, if not stronger. Since their third-grade meeting, their connection had become one of soft reliance and quiet understanding, only growing deeper with each day spent wandering muddy paths and sharing childhood secrets in their secret hideout near a old temple.

Maya stepped into the new classroom that morning with her usual confident stride. Her hair was neatly tied in two braids, and the soft peach of her uniform clashed gently with the sunlight spilling through the windows. She glanced around and found her name on one of the benches in the second row. Seated beside her was her best friend Ananya, as expected.

But something felt off.

She turned instinctively to the row beside hers—the one where Kian always sat. It had been his desk for a while, even before summer. Their teacher, Mrs. D’Souza, strictly followed the rules: girls with girls, boys with boys. But Kian had claimed the seat closest to Maya's desk in that diagonal placement—still close enough to pass notes, share silly sketches, or just whisper teasing remarks.

Except today, someone else was sitting there.

A boy she hadn't seen before.

He had a mop of messy, curly hair, dark eyes filled with mischief, and an easy grin that already told her he wasn’t the shy type. He glanced her way and gave a wink that nearly made her choke on her own breath.

Maya blinked.

Who was he?

She glanced toward the door again. Still no sign of Kian.

When he did arrive, a little later than usual, he paused at the door. His sharp eyes scanned the room. The moment his gaze fell on the new face —sitting beside Maya's desk, something subtle shifted in his expression. His usual blank calm cracked slightly at the edges.

He walked slowly to his usual seat, or rather—what used to be his.

The new boy was still leaning sideways, whispering something to Maya, who looked more annoyed than amused.

Kian stood quietly beside the desk.

"You're blocking the light," the new boy said casually, turning to him.

Maya’s head snapped toward Kian.

His eyes weren’t on the new boy.

They were on her.

And something about that quiet gaze made her straighten up in her seat.

Before either of them could say anything, Mrs. D’Souza entered the classroom. "Everyone, settle down. Vivaan, glad you could join us. New student, everyone, make him feel welcome."

Vivaan leaned back in his seat with the relaxed ease of someone who never worried about welcome or not. Kian, wordless, walked to the row behind Maya and took a seat without protest.

---

Recess came and went. Maya couldn’t focus on her lunch.

Vivaan had tried to talk to her the entire time. But her eyes kept drifting to the seat behind her. She hadn’t spoken to Kian all morning. He hadn’t spoken to her either. He didn’t even tease her when her pen rolled under his desk. He just picked it up, handed it to her, and returned to his tiffin box without a word.

It was unsettling.

Later that week, the weather took a turn. Monsoon arrived early that year.

Their school garden was filled with puddles and the scent of wet earth. The students weren’t allowed to go out, but Maya and Kian had their own ideas.

It was after school when they ran off toward the hidden path near the back gate. The rain had just started falling—a light drizzle at first. They were halfway to their secret place when Kian finally spoke.

"Do you like that new boy?"

Maya stopped walking. The rain tapped lightly against her umbrella.

"What?"

"Vivaan. You smiled at him a lot today."

Maya frowned. "I did not. He says weird things."

Kian looked away, lips twitching. "You laughed."

"Because it was weird. Not funny. There’s a difference."

Kian nodded slowly but didn’t speak again. Maya watched him, unsure why she felt like she needed to say more.

"You’re acting strange," she muttered. "Is this about the seat thing?"

He didn’t answer.

"You could've told me. I would've asked him to move."

"It’s not that big a deal."

"Then stop sulking like a baby."

That made him look at her. His hair was wet now, sticking to his forehead. His eyes had that distant quiet again—the kind that made Maya shift on her feet.

"I just don’t like people who think they can sit wherever they want."

Maya snorted. "You don’t own the seat, Kian."

"But I’ve always been there."

"Still not a reason."

"But you never minded before."

Maya bit her lip.

"Maybe I did. You never asked."

The silence stretched.

Rain poured a little harder.

Kian took a hesitant step closer. Maya didn’t step back. Not yet. The rain had soaked through her sleeves.

He reached out suddenly, brushing a wet leaf off her braid.

And that’s when she felt it.

Her heartbeat stuttered—just a little. She wasn’t sure what that feeling was. It wasn’t anger, or joy, or even embarrassment. It was something odd. Warm. Annoying. Unnameable.

She moved a step back and frowned.

"Didn’t your mom told you that you’re big now? You shouldn’t touch any girl like this."

Kian blinked, hand still slightly raised. "Why?"

"Because! Boys shouldn’t!"

He tilted his head, confused. "But you’re not just any girl. You’re my... my best friend. So why can’t I, hmm?"

Maya stared at him.

And somewhere inside her, something stirred—something too early to name, but impossible to ignore.

The rain fell harder.

Neither of them moved.

And neither of them forgot that moment.

He ran through rain with muddy feet,

A grin that never skipped a beat.

She rolled her eyes, but deep inside,

Felt something strange she couldn't hide.

A push, a race, a dare, a smile,

He'd tease, she'd pout — just for a while.

Too young to name what stirred within,

But something soft had just begin.