Echoes in the Classroom

The ceiling fan creaked overhead like it had aged along with the building - worn, tired, and forced into routine. Outside, the neem trees swayed in a lazy breeze, indifferent to the storm brewing inside the room.

Vishakha’s pen tapped against her desk in soft, anxious rhythms. Tap. Tap. Tap. Her mind wasn’t in class, it was wandering through a dozen possibilities. Who had sent that message? Had the letter been found by someone random or… worse, someone she knew?

She didn’t see it coming.

“Before we begin,” said Mrs. Kamakshi, their literature teacher, adjusting her dupatta and clearing her throat, “I came across something… raw. Unassigned, but powerful. I believe this should be heard.”

A few students straightened in curiosity. A few others stifled yawns.

But Vishakha froze.

“You see through me like glass, even when I pretend to be steel…”

The classroom seemed to quiet in an unnatural way like the air itself held its breath.

“I speak in silences, hoping you’ll hear the cracks.

I dream with my eyes open because you’re always there...

Somewhere between the moment I inhale and forget to exhale…”

Vishakha’s eyes widened. Her spine straightened. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

No.

No, no, no.

Mrs. Kamakshi’s voice floated through the air with the weight of a thousand secrets.

Three rows behind her, Adhvik sat with one foot lazily swinging, half-listening until his body stilled. Like a flame touched a fuse.

His eyes darted up.

He knew.

Not because the words had a name.

Not because anyone had told him.

But because the pauses between those lines sounded like her breath.

And those feelings...they had his name all over them.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even blink.

The classroom, meanwhile, came alive with curiosity.

“Who wrote it?” whispered someone.

“Is it a real letter?” asked another.

Mrs. Kamakshi, with her usual enigmatic smile, only said, “The author chose to remain anonymous. But I hope you carry these words with you, as I have.”

Then she moved on. Like it had been any ordinary reading.

But nothing felt ordinary now.

Vishakha stared at the blank space in her notebook where she'd doodled stars the day before. Her mouth was dry. Her hands cold. She hadn’t intended this. She hadn’t meant for her soul to be read aloud. Especially not in front of him.

Adhvik didn’t look at her. Not once.

And yet she felt the weight of his silence pressing down on her shoulders.

The bell rang.

Chairs scraped back. The class buzzed with a new energy, everyone speculating, tossing names, laughing, guessing.

Vishakha kept her head down and slipped out before anyone could ask.

But Adhvik?

He stayed seated for a few seconds longer, still staring at the now-blank board, like the words were still echoing there.

When he finally rose, he walked past her desk and paused. Briefly. Almost imperceptibly.

Then he left.

That afternoon, she didn’t text him. He didn’t text her.

In their six-year streak of daily nonsense and secrets, this was the first silence that felt... intentional.

That evening, she returned home to find Ayaan had sent her a "casual" message: “Your mom said you write well. I’d love to read something someday.”