All The Ways We Almost Said It

chapter 1:The Beginning

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.