Author's POV:-

The calendar flipped, and Krisha was now in 9th grade, Aryan, her steadfast online confidant, was in 10th.

The oppressive shadow of the corona pandemic was finally beginning to lift. Mass vaccinations were underway, injecting a fragile hope into the community.

While schools and colleges largely remained closed, the government, mindful of the pressure of board exams, allowed classes to resume solely for 10th and 12th graders.

Aryan returned to a skeletal school environment. The hallways were quiet, assemblies were gone, and study was confined to a few masked hours in sparsely populated classrooms.

Yet, life, inch by slow inch, began to return. For certain essential activities like the upcoming Independence Day celebration or the preparations for Janmashtami,the music teacher was permitted to summon a select few students from other grades.

Krisha saw her chance. After a year of being sidelined by rumors and the lockdown, she craved participation. She signed up for the singing group, pulling Priti along with her. But the true, unspoken reason was one she could never voice: Aryan.

His talent on the piano was legendary: his spot was guaranteed right beside the music teacher.And so, during practice sessions, there he was.

Krisha and Priti stood with the other singers, and Aryan sat at the piano. The proximity wes intoxicating and terrifying. Krisha desperately stole glances at his profile-focused, rhythmic, handsome,but she never dared to meet his eyes. The physical sight of him, even across a room, still short-circuited her system. Her heartbeat would race, turning her into the flustered, shy girl who couldn't utter a word face-to-face.

The routine extended outside school walls, too. On her way home, Krisha saw Aryan at least one time on the bridge road, a brief, silent acknowledgment of their shared route.

But the real connection roared to life the moment she got home and logged on. They chatted for hours, laughing over the sheer irony of their existence.

Two people who pretended to be strangers in real life were, in fact, so intimately connected online that they seemed like two halves of the same person.

They dissected the music class. Krisha counted her own off-key moments, and they both chuckled about the poor music teacher slowly losing their patience with the unmasked chaos of student mischief.

This deep reliance, however, brought with it a fragile insecurity for Krisha. Having never experienced such pure, affectionate friendship, especially not with a boy, she was constantly on edge. If Aryan took a minute longer than usual to reply, her mind instantly spiraled into panic: is he ignoring me? Does he want to end our friendship?

Aryan, sensing her anxiety and knowing her self-doubt ran deep, always offered the comforting reassurance she needed. He didn't dismiss her feelings; he validated them. He told her sincerely that he liked her exactly the way she was, flaws and all.

"I like that you talk too much," he confessed one night.

"I feel like I could listen to you forever."

But all this he had said was just as a friend. Krisha knew her boundaries so she reminded herself every time not to fall for him more . She thought she would get out of love with him eventually after the friendship would grow. But what destiny has written for them neither of them know yet....

In those shared vulnerable moments, they made their solemn, unspoken promise explicit. They told each other they were best friends forever, that nothing would ever separate them, and that they would never hide things from each other,they would simply continue to be the honest, uninhibited version of themselves they were in their chats. It was a digital pact of loyalty, cementing a bond that both knew ran deeper than mere friendship, providing Krisha with the security she desperately craved and giving Aryan the best friend he never knew he needed.

Krisha's POV:-

Aryan. He felt like something I had, yet at the same time, something utterly out of reach. I could see him at school, sometimes right across the music room, but I couldn't cross that invisible boundary to reach him.

We laughed for hours in our chats, yet a knot of jealousy would tighten in my chest whenever he casually mentioned another girl, even his friends' sister or a senior. I quickly had to shove that feeling down, shrugging it off because I didn't have the right to claim anything more than friendship. I was just a friend.

There were nights when the weight of these secret feelings and my profound insecurity became too much. I'd cry in the bathroom, silent tears streaming down my face. If anyone saw me, they'd think I was crazy, crying for no reason.

How could I explain that I felt ugly, that the reason he couldn't be fully mine was etched right onto my face? Maybe, just maybe, if I were even slightly pretty, he would see me differently. But then reality would strike hard, reminding me that Aryan was too good for me. I would force myself to let go of those painful feelings, focusing only on the glorious present: at least he was my friend.

In music class, the proximity was a daily torture and a daily treat. I'd try to keep my gaze fixed on the sheet music, but sometimes, when I sneaked a glance at him, I'd find he was already looking at me.

That realisation that he had been watching,sent quick goosebumps racing over my skin. My heart would start drumming a frantic rhythm, and I'd feel that intense shyness wash over me.

It felt like an impossible situation. I could spill my entire soul to him over text, but face-to-face, I was mute.

Pari,probably feeling guilty, started talking to me again. We chatted and called sometimes, but the initial, sharp wound from her betrayal lingered. They say wounds never truly heal, and shattered glass can't be put back together perfectly. I had moved on, yes, but I couldn't fully re-attach myself to her.

Yet, through all the school drama and internal struggle, one memory from our chats stayed with me, radiating a warmth that kept me going.

One day, Aryan messaged me to say he wouldn't be able to talk for two days because his mom was traveling to another city and he wouldn't have access to his phone.

A wave of sadness washed over me immediately. It felt like a sudden, unexpected separation. I managed to type,

"It's okay, take care. We'll talk after two days."

Then, the last message from him flashed on my screen, and it shook me to the core.

"Take care krisha I love you (as a friend) ."

"I love you."the words hung in the air, electric and dizzying. Even though he had immediately added the parentheses, (as a friend), the core sentiment, I love you-was the most beautiful, terrifying thing anyone had ever said to me.

It felt so deeply personal, so different from anything else. My fingers froze. I didn't know how to respond to that monumental statement, even with the qualifier. Finally, to avoid any awkwardness, I simply liked the message and typed:- 

"Me too as a friend."

Why? Why did we have to say it as a friend? The answer was a cold, hard stone in my stomach,because I was no good match for him. He was the golden boy. But still, the warmth of those three little words, wrapped in the safety of friendship, stayed with me as I drifted off to sleep, a secret treasure I would forever hold close.