The final bell of St. Xavier's Senior Secondary rang not like a celebration, but like a quiet toll — one that signaled the end of an era. Within minutes, the campus erupted in a frenzy of last-day traditions. Shirts turned into canvases as permanent markers scrawled across fabric: "Stay in touch," "Never change," "Miss you already." Teachers smiled, half-relieved and half-nostalgic, as they watched the chaos unfold with folded arms.
But away from the crowd, near the back gate, stood a boy who hadn't let anyone write on his shirt — Tushar.
The clouds above loomed heavy with the monsoon's weight, mirroring the tight ache building inside his chest. He leaned against the moss-covered wall, staring at the rain-slicked pavement as if it held answers. His old sneakers were soaked from where he had stepped into a puddle, but he didn't care. He was leaving. In three days, everything he'd ever known would be packed into a suitcase and carried off on a train to Indore.
"Found you," said a voice behind him.
Tushar didn't need to look. He knew that voice — calm and clear, like temple bells in the evening. Amrita.
She approached with her usual mixture of determination and ease, her uniform slightly wrinkled, her black umbrella forgotten somewhere, and her long braid sticking to her damp back.
"You always disappear like you're starring in some sad indie film," she teased, though her voice carried a quiet undertone. "Are you seriously not saying goodbye to anyone?"
Tushar shrugged, eyes still fixed on the wet road. "What's the point? We all say we'll keep in touch, and then we don't."
Amrita stepped beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. "Maybe not with everyone. But some people matter."
He turned toward her, finally meeting her eyes. "Do we?"
There was a flicker of something unreadable in her expression — surprise, maybe, or hesitation — but it quickly softened into a smile. "We better," she said. "Otherwise I've been wasting my best years on you."
They both laughed, the tension thinning just a little. A rickshaw rattled by in the distance, and a few younger students ran past them chasing one another, shoes slapping loudly against the pavement.
Tushar knew he'd remember this corner forever. The cracked gate, the peeling paint, the half-bent notice board that still displayed a science fair poster from three months ago. And her — standing beside him, her forehead glistening slightly from the humidity, yet composed as always.
"You're really going on Monday?" she asked after a pause.
He nodded. "Morning train. Papa said we should be out by six. My room's already half empty."
Amrita nodded too, but he could tell her mind had drifted elsewhere. She reached into her schoolbag and pulled out something wrapped in a red cloth ribbon.
"I wanted to give this to you," she said, holding it out.
Tushar unwrapped it carefully. It was an old notebook, the cover frayed and edges curling inwards from use. His fingers froze. He knew this notebook — it was the one she scribbled in during lunch breaks, the one she never let anyone see.
"You sure?"
"I've been writing in it all year," she said. "Not poems or anything dramatic. Just… us. Things we did, things I noticed. Stuff I didn't say out loud."
Tushar flipped through the first few pages. Her writing filled every line — slanted and neat, punctuated with little doodles of stars, glasses, sneakers, and the occasional coffee cup.
"You want me to read all of this?"
"I want you to write in it," she replied. "When you get to Indore. Write about your life there. Stuff you don't want to say out loud. We can send it back and forth. Like letters. Like — I don't know — a golden thread."
The phrase struck him. Golden thread. Something fragile, yet unbreakable. A link. A promise.
"What if we grow apart?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
"Then we'll write about it," she said. "But we'll do it together."
His fingers tightened around the notebook. "Okay," he said. "Deal."
A horn blared nearby. The school van was beginning to pull away. Amrita glanced back toward the gate and then turned to him one last time.
"Promise me you'll write?"
He nodded. "Promise."
She smiled — not a big, showy grin, but a small, sincere one that lived in her eyes. "Then this isn't goodbye."
And with that, she walked off into the drizzle, her figure fading slowly into the crowd of students and parents and umbrellas. Tushar watched her go, holding the notebook to his chest like something sacred.
---
Three days later, the train to Indore rolled out of the station at 6:03 a.m., right on time. Tushar sat by the window, his backpack tucked at his feet, and the red-ribboned notebook resting on his lap.
Outside, the landscape slipped by — wet fields, distant temples, muddy roads — but he wasn't watching.
He opened to the first blank page and started to write:
Dear Amrita,
I wanted to say goodbye that day, but the words never came. Maybe because I never liked endings. So here's a beginning instead. Hello from a moving train...
---
Moral:
True friendship isn't about staying in the same place — it's about leaving behind a part of yourself and carrying a part of someone else, no matter where life leads.