They didn’t grow close all at once.
It happened quietly—between school bells, shared walks, and days that felt ordinary until they weren’t.
Methli started coming home with him.
At first, she stopped at the edge of the slum, unsure, eyes wide. Aarav told her she didn’t have to come further.
She did anyway.
She learned the paths quickly—where the ground dipped, which corners smelled worse, which dogs barked but never bit. She didn’t wrinkle her nose or ask questions that hurt.
His siblings adored her instantly.
His sister braided Methli’s hair with clumsy fingers.
His brother followed her everywhere like a shadow.
Methli brought things—not gifts, never charity. Old storybooks. Chalk pieces. Extra rotis wrapped carefully in cloth.
She made their world bigger without making them feel small.
Aarav watched it happen with something close to fear.
Because good things didn’t last.
At school, they sat closer now. Talked less, understood more. Sometimes their hands brushed, accidental and electric. Sometimes they just sat in silence, watching clouds move like they had nowhere urgent to be.
“This one looks like a bird,” Methli said once.
“Looks trapped,” Aarav replied.
She glanced at him. Didn’t argue.
Years passed like that. Slowly. Kindly.
Until the day Methli didn’t come to school.
One day turned into three.
Three into a week.
When she finally appeared, it was only at the edge of the slum. She didn’t step inside.
Her hair was neatly braided. Her eyes were red.
“I can’t come anymore,” she said.
He already knew. The way her shoulders were stiff. The way she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“They fixed it,” she continued. “I’m getting married when I turn eighteen.”
The words didn’t make sense. They sounded borrowed.
“You’re still in school,” he said stupidly.
She shook her head. “Not anymore.”
Something collapsed inside him—not loudly, not all at once. Just a quiet, sickening drop.
“You can’t,” he said. “You can tell them—”
“I tried.”
That was the worst part. Not the marriage. Not the ending.
The trying.
They stood there, the space between them heavier than anything he’d ever carried.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
He wanted to say something brave. Something strong.
But all he felt was small.
Poor.
Helpless.
That night, he sat outside his home while his siblings slept. The same place he once thought of ending everything. But this pain was different.
This wasn’t about survival.
This was about being left behind by the world.
No amount of endurance could fix this. No silence could protect her. No strength could buy time.
For the first time, being poor wasn’t just hunger or bruises.
It was powerlessness.
And it burned worse than anything his father had ever done.
Methli never came back to school.
But sometimes, when Aarav closed his eyes, he could still hear her voice—soft, certain, impossible to forget.
And somewhere deep inside him, something hardened.
Not into anger.
Into resolve.
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