By the time Ishika entered eighth standard, the world around her had changed once again.
Gone were the noisy lunch breaks with Deepali, the occasional teasing from Yuvraj, and the silent glances toward Sarvadnya.One by one, people left.
Deepali, her brother, most of her classmates, and the seniors — they had moved on to other schools. The town of Jejuri had developed. New schools had opened. Ambitions grew wings and parents sought "better opportunities" for their children elsewhere.
Even teachers left — some married, some relocated, and others had only come for experience. Now, only four students remained: Ishika, her younger brother Ritesh, and two classmates — Abhay and Gaurav.
And yet… she felt peace for the first time.
Classes were quiet. Days were simpler.
Their only regular teacher was a Muslim ma'am who taught Marathi and Hindi. A kind woman, soft-spoken and warm, who often shared lunch with Ishika. They'd laugh, chat, and sometimes sit under the tree where the garden sunlight filtered like a painting.
The school was almost empty, but the principal — now older, but ever-passionate — still taught them with the same dedication. A Canadian by origin, he once said:
"Even if I have only one student, I'll teach with all my heart."
And he did.
In this calm silence, Ishika found something she hadn't felt in years: herself.
Free from the noise, gossip, secrets, and silent heartaches, she focused. Her studies improved. Her mind felt lighter. Her lunch breaks turned playful again — spent laughing with the three boys, debating random topics, and even cracking jokes that only she found funny.
She was still the same girl who prayed to Shiva, who found meaning in art and poetry…But now, she was healing.
Then, one afternoon, while walking past the school gates, she saw a familiar face.
Sarvadnya.
He had come to visit the principal, perhaps out of respect — or maybe nostalgia. Their eyes met. Just a simple glance. A polite "hi." Seven months had passed since the truth-or-dare mess.
No apologies. No heavy emotions.
Just... a casual greeting between two people who once knew each other better than they admitted.
Ishika smiled back. It didn't hurt anymore.
Not long after, Deepali visited Ishika's home.
It was unexpected — awkward, even. But Ishika, ever kind, let her in. They sat down, flipping through old school photographs taken by Suryakant — their senior, the principal's son, and an amazing photographer.
The images pulled at old strings — the classroom laughter, decorations, events, birthdays…
Then, one particular photo came up — Sarvadnya, laughing, candid.
Deepali giggled, nudging Ishika.
"You know… I used to think you two would have looked good together."
Ishika paused. Her hand froze on the edge of the photo album.
What a nerve, she thought.You, of all people, saying that?
She didn't say it aloud. Instead, she simply asked:
"Why did you break up with him?"
A sharp silence fell between them.
Deepali didn't answer.
But she didn't need to.Because Ishika finally saw everything she had been too innocent to notice before.
The quiet glances. The private talks. The matching keychains.
She remembered that one day, during baseball practice, Sarvadnya's mother had brought him tiffin. She had smiled teasingly — not at Ishika, but at Deepali.
Back then, Ishika hadn't understood the gesture. She was too busy catching the ball. Too busy being a kid. Too innocent.
But now?
It all made sense.
Sarvadnya and Deepali had liked each other — maybe even dated in their small school-kid way.And Ishika?
She was just the girl who saw the good in people.The one who mistook admiration for affection.The one who fell for someone's personality, not their attention.
And what did she get in return?
The same girl who once held her secrets… now mocking her silence with a "you two would've been cute together."
How ironic.
And to top it all off?
Just one week after her breakup with Sarvadnya, Deepali was already being seen with another boy — someone who hovered around the school gates, peeking in during lunch breaks, waiting after school.
No judgment. Ishika didn't believe in shaming choices.
But deep inside, she whispered:
"Is this what relationships mean now?A week-long heartbreak and a new face in the hallway?"
Later that evening, as she looked out the window, watching the sky darken over Jejuri, she felt both lighter and heavier.
Lighter — because the confusion had finally cleared.
Heavier — because she had outgrown the version of herself who once blindly trusted people with her heart.
That night, she didn't cry.She just smiled — sad, but wiser.
"Some truths take time to surface.Some people leave so the right ones can stay."
And in that moment, she thanked Shiva.For the pain.For the peace.And for finally learning to see.