He stopped going to school.
No one noticed.
No one asked.
The teachers didnât call his name.
The classmates didnât look at his bench.
The hostel warden didnât care.
It was like the world had simply⦠moved on.
But he hadnât.
He couldnât.
Because some people donât leave your world when they disappear.
They become your world.
And when they vanish â
So does the meaning of everything else.
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The mornings felt too long now.
The sun rose, but he didnât.
He lay in bed with eyes wide open, staring at the cracks in the ceiling like they were roads leading to nowhere.
The paper crane sat by his pillow.
Unfolded once.
But folded back â like he was scared it might stop being her if it lost its shape.
Her sketchbook lay under his bed.
He hadnât opened it in days.
He was scared.
Scared that if he looked at her drawings again, heâd start believing she was real.
And if he believed that â
Then her leaving would hurt even more.
So he kept it hidden.
Like his feelings.
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Food stopped mattering.
Water tasted like dust.
Sleep was a war he lost every night.
He would wake up gasping â
Dreaming of her laughing,
Only to find the wind whispering her name in a voice too empty.
The world around him looked⦠wrong.
Too bright.
Too fake.
The city lights mocked him.
The sky ignored him.
Even the birds that used to dance above his head now flew like they didnât care if anyone watched.
He missed her noise.
He missed the chaos she brought.
The way she dropped feathers on his desk.
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The way she called clouds lazy.
The way her eyes sparkled when she said stupid things like âYou remind me of quiet lightning.â
She had become his sound in a silent world.
And now that she was gone â
Everything felt muted again.
But this time, it hurt more.
Because now, he knew what it felt like to be noticed.
To be seen.
To be cared for.
And losing that?
It was like forgetting how to breathe in a room full of air.
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One evening, he walked.
Nowhere in particular.
The city passed him by in colors he couldnât name anymore.
People laughed.
Shouted.
Held hands.
He kept his hands in his pockets.
Head down.
Mind stuck.
He found himself at the old bus park again.
Of course.
The tree was still there.
The bench still broken.
But everything else was wrong.
No coffee cans.
No headphones.
No girl with wild hair and tired eyes.
Just wind.
And silence.
He sat anyway.
And whispered to the air:
âIâm sorry I didnât ask you to stay.â
He didnât expect a reply.
But he waited.
Because thatâs what grief teaches you â
To wait for things that never come back.
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Later that night, back at the hostel, he finally opened the sketchbook again.
His hands shook.
The pages felt heavier this time.
Like they carried pieces of her soul.
Little crumbs of who she was.
Who she wanted to be.
And in the middle â
A new page he hadnât noticed before.
It wasnât a drawing.
Just words. Written in her crooked, rushed handwriting.
âIf I go⦠donât become silent again.
Let yourself feel it.
Break. Cry. Scream.
But donât disappear like you did before I found you.
Live.
Because thatâs the only way Iâll stay.â
He dropped the book.
His chest ached.
It wasnât the soft ache of sadness anymore.
It was loud now.
Painful.
Unbearable.
He pressed his fists to his ribs, trying to hold himself together.
But it was no use.
The tears came.
Not slow this time.
Not quiet.
They poured â
Like all the skies in his chest finally collapsed at once.
And he screamed into the dark.
Screamed like the boy who forgot how to dream had finally remembered how to feel.
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That night, sleep came in flashes.
Broken. Shaky.
Half-real.
And in one of those dreamlike pieces of sleep â
He saw her.
Standing by the hill.
Hair blowing.
Eyes soft.
She wasnât smiling.
Just looking at him.
Like she didnât want to go.
But had to.
He ran to her.
Tried to touch her hand.
But she faded.
Like smoke.
Like memory.
He woke up gasping.
Heart racing.
Room dark.
But this time â
There was a strange warmth in his chest.
As if her memory had left a little light behind.
----------------------------------------
The next morning, he got up early.
First time in days.
Brushed his hair.
Washed his face.
Didnât look in the mirror â but that was okay.
He packed her sketchbook in his bag.
The crane too.
And walked.
Back to the hill.
The path felt longer now.
Maybe because he was walking alone.
Or maybe because he was carrying too many feelings he couldnât name.
When he reached the top â
The sky was different.
Not bright.
Not dark.
Just⦠soft.
Like a sky that had been crying and now was just breathing.
He sat down.
Opened the sketchbook.
Held the crane in one hand.
And whispered to the wind:
âIâll try.â
His voice cracked.
âBut itâs hard.â
The wind didnât reply.
But a single feather floated past him.
White.
Small.
Too perfect to be random.
He caught it.
And smiled through the tears.
----------------------------------------
He stood up.
Looked at the city below.
So big.
So loud.
So full of people who would never know about a girl who healed a broken boy by simply existing.
And he whispered,
âThank you.â
Then folded the feather inside the book.
Pressed the paper crane beside it.
And walked down the hill.
Not with peace.
Not with healing.
But with something softer.
A promise.
To live.
For her.