He came to school barefoot that day.
Not because he wanted to—because the sole of his only pair had torn clean through, and his father had already spent the morning’s money on alcohol. The ground burned his feet as he walked, but he didn’t flinch. Flinching was a habit he’d unlearned early.
The classroom smelled of chalk dust and damp uniforms. He slipped into the last bench, shoulders hunched, eyes low. That was how he survived—small, silent, unnoticed.
Then she walked in.
She didn’t enter like the others, dragging their bags and yawning through routine. She bounced. Her braids swung unevenly, ribbons slightly loose, shoes polished but scuffed at the toes. Her uniform wasn’t new, but it was clean—washed carefully, folded with care.
She smiled at the room as if it had smiled first.
“Good morning!” she said, too loud, too cheerful.
A few children laughed. The teacher sighed.
He looked up.
Sunshine—that was the only word his young mind could find. She took the empty seat two benches ahead of him, turned around, and noticed him staring.
Instead of looking away, she smiled directly at him.
“Hi,” she said, like they already knew each other.
He froze.
No one ever spoke to him first.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
He hesitated. Names were dangerous. Names made things real.
“…Aarav,” he said quietly.
She nodded, as if she’d been trusted with something important.
“I’m Methli,” she said. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
He shook his head.
“That’s okay,” she decided. “I talk enough for both of us.”
Then she turned back to the blackboard, humming softly, like the world had already accepted him.
At lunch, he stayed seated, pretending he wasn’t hungry. His stomach burned, but hunger was familiar—it never scared him anymore.
Steel tiffins opened around the room. The smell of rice and curry filled the air.
“Why aren’t you eating?” Methli asked, suddenly beside his desk.
“I’m not hungry.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That’s a lie.”
Before he could stop her, she slid half her lunch onto his desk.
“My mother packs too much,” she said casually. “Help me finish it.”
“I can’t,” he whispered.
She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You can. Or I’ll tell the teacher you’re being stubborn.”
That was the first time he laughed.
It came out small and broken, like it hadn’t been used in years. He didn’t even recognize the sound at first.
From that day on, she waited for him every morning. She talked about everything—clouds shaped like animals, how she wanted a yellow bicycle, how she hated math but loved stories.
He listened.
And slowly—carefully—he began to answer.
She never asked why his clothes were worn.
Never asked why he smelled faintly of smoke and cheap liquor.
Never looked at his bare feet like they were something shameful.
To her, he was just Aarav.
That evening, when he returned to the slum, stepping over broken glass and sleeping bodies, he realized something unsettling.
For the first time in his life,
someone had seen him—and hadn’t looked away.
And he didn’t know it yet, but the girl named Methli—
with her crooked braids and impossible light—
was about to become the only thing in the world he would be terrified to lose.
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