All the things time couldn't take away

Part Two: All the Things Time Couldn’t Take Away

A week after that conversation, Aditya left for Mumbai.

It happened so ordinarily that Ishita almost hated it.

There were no dramatic goodbyes, no long conversations about how much they would miss each other, and certainly no promises that everything would remain the same. There was just a suitcase, a few family members helping him with his luggage, and Aditya standing downstairs, checking whether he had forgotten anything.

Ishita watched from her balcony.

She had known he would leave eventually. They had spoken about it, after all. College, Mumbai, new beginnings. It was exciting, and she was genuinely happy for him.

Still, there was something terribly unfair about watching someone become a memory while they were still very much alive.

Before leaving, Aditya had texted her.

Aditya: Reached the station?

Ishita: You’re the one going to Mumbai, not me.

Aditya: Just checking if you’re alive.

Ishita: Unfortunately for you, yes.

Aditya: Good. Keep it that way.

She had laughed at her phone for an embarrassing amount of time.

And then, just like that, he was gone.

For the first few days, Ishita found herself reaching for her phone more often than usual. She would open their chat, read their last conversation, and close it again because she couldn’t think of anything interesting to say.

What was she supposed to text him?

Hey, I miss you, even though you’ve only been gone for three days and we weren’t even talking that much before you left?

Absolutely not.

So she settled for the occasional question about Mumbai, his college, and whether he had made any friends.

Aditya, fortunately, was better at keeping conversations alive.

He told her about his college, the people he met, the food he complained about, and the strange things he noticed around his new surroundings. Ishita told him about school, her friends, her teachers, and whatever minor inconvenience had ruined her day.

Sometimes, they ran out of things to say.

Sometimes, one of them replied hours later.

Sometimes, their entire conversation consisted of five messages and a random sticker.

But they texted every day.

Five minutes became ten. Ten minutes became the little part of their day that neither of them particularly wanted to give up.

At first, it was awkward. They had only recently become friends, and suddenly, they were expected to maintain a friendship across hundreds of kilometres. Neither of them knew exactly how to do that.

But they learned.

Aditya began sending her pictures of his college campus without any explanation. Ishita began sending him pictures of things that reminded her of conversations they had had. He complained about assignments; she complained about examinations. He told her about his new friends; she told him about the latest drama in her class.

And somewhere between all those ordinary conversations, they stopped feeling like two people trying to become friends.

They simply became friends.

By the time Ishita entered Class Nine, her studies had begun demanding more of her attention. Aditya was busy with his own college life, and neither of them could spend hours talking like the people in movies seemed to do.

Still, they found time.

And when the occasional video call happened, Ishita discovered that seeing Aditya’s face on a screen was somehow both comforting and terrifying.

The first time he called unexpectedly, she stared at her phone as though it had personally offended her.

She watched it ring.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

She could answer it. Obviously, she could answer it. He was her friend. Friends answered each other’s calls.

But what if she looked strange? What if she had nothing to say? What if he had called by accident? What if he was with his friends and they could hear her? What if—

The call ended.

A message appeared almost immediately.

Aditya: Busy?

Ishita closed her eyes.

Ishita: Yeah, sorry. Studying.

She had, in fact, been studying. Just not particularly successfully for the last three minutes.

Aditya: Oh. Okay. Call me when you’re free.

And that was somehow worse.

Because now she had to call him herself.

She spent another ten minutes preparing herself for a conversation with a boy who had once seen her at her absolute worst in a mismatched outfit and had survived the experience without any lasting consequences.

Eventually, she called.

He answered with a grin.

“Finally. I was beginning to think you’d become too famous to talk to me.”

“Please. I’m extremely busy being academically unsuccessful.”

He laughed.

And Ishita, who had once spent entire evenings analysing the meaning of a simple smile, found herself smiling back without even thinking about it.

Over the next year, their conversations became easier. They began having audio calls that lasted longer than either had planned. Video calls became less awkward. Silences stopped feeling like problems that needed immediate solutions.

Aditya began to see the parts of Ishita that she didn’t show everyone. She could be loud, dramatic, stubborn, and ridiculously competitive, but she could also become quiet when something bothered her. She cared about little things more than she admitted, and she sometimes needed someone to listen without immediately offering a solution.

Ishita, in turn, began to understand Aditya.

He wasn’t always the confident, composed person she had imagined. He got tired, worried about his future, complained about college, and occasionally became so absorbed in his work that he forgot to check his phone.

He was human.

And, strangely enough, that made her like him even more.

There were days, however, when Ishita’s mind refused to cooperate with her newfound maturity.

On those days, it returned to the past.

To the days before they had become friends, when she knew almost nothing about him but somehow noticed everything.

She remembered the little things.

Like the spoons.

And the forks.

Ishita’s mother occasionally asked Aditya to take a spoon or fork to school for her when she forgot one with her lunch. It was a perfectly ordinary favour between neighbours. Aditya would walk into her classroom, hand it to her, and leave.

It should not have been memorable.

But it was.

She remembered the first time he had come to her class with a fork. She had been sitting with her friends when he appeared at the doorway, looking around until he spotted her.

“Ishita?”

She had looked up so quickly that one of her friends nearly choked on her food.

“Your mother sent this.”

He held out the fork.

“Oh. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

And then he left.

That was it.

Three seconds, perhaps four.

Ishita had spent the rest of the lunch break pretending to listen to her friends while replaying those four seconds in her head.

After that, she began developing a questionable habit.

Sometimes, she would deliberately leave her spoon or fork at home.

Once, she even managed to forget her entire tiffin.

It was a remarkably inefficient strategy for someone who could simply have spoken to him, but Ishita had never claimed to be sensible where Aditya was concerned.

Her mother would call downstairs.

Aditya would arrive with whatever she needed.

And Ishita would spend the next few minutes trying to appear as though a boy walking into her classroom was the most uninteresting event of her day.

Her friends, unfortunately, were not blind.

“You’re telling me you forgot your tiffin again?”

“It happens.”

“Three times this month?”

“Memory is a complicated thing.”

“Apparently, only when Aditya is involved.”

Ishita had thrown a napkin at her.

She still remembered those moments now, years later, sitting in her room with his chat open on her phone.

The strange thing about memories was that they became more precious when you could no longer return to them.

She could still picture the classroom doorway. She could still remember the way she would look up whenever someone entered, secretly hoping it would be him.

She could even remember the ridiculous excitement of receiving an ordinary spoon.

Back then, she had thought those moments were insignificant because they were so small.

Now, they were some of her favourite memories.

And then, of course, there was Harshita.

Harshita was in Class Eleven when Aditya was still in school. She travelled on the same bus as him, and the two of them were genuinely good friends.

They talked easily. They laughed at things Ishita couldn’t hear from where she sat. Sometimes, Aditya would smile at something Harshita said, and Ishita would find herself looking away before either of them noticed her watching.

She had absolutely no right to feel jealous.

She knew that.

She and Aditya weren’t even friends at the time. They barely spoke. He owed her no explanations, no attention, and certainly no obligation to avoid talking to another girl.

Yet her mind had already constructed an entire story.

Were they dating?

Did he like her?

Was that why he looked so comfortable around her?

Was Harshita prettier? Funnier? More interesting?

And why was Ishita asking herself these questions when she didn’t even know what Aditya’s favourite subject was?

It was exhausting.

She would spend an entire bus ride watching them laugh together, then spend the next hour telling herself she didn’t care.

The next morning, she would do it all over again.

Now, whenever Aditya mentioned a female friend from college, she sometimes felt that familiar, unreasonable little pinch of jealousy.

The difference was that she could finally recognise it for what it was.

She didn’t have to turn every feeling into a story.

Sometimes, she could simply laugh at herself.

Ishita: So, who’s this girl you keep mentioning?

Aditya: A friend from college.

Ishita: Oh.

Aditya: Why?

Ishita: No reason.

Aditya: Ishita.

Ishita: ADITYA.

Aditya: You’re overthinking again, aren’t you?

She stared at the screen.

Annoyingly, he knew her far too well.

The years passed.

Aditya finished college and began preparing for the next stage of his life. Ishita moved through Class Ten and into Class Eleven, slowly becoming the person she had once only imagined she could be.

Their friendship survived examinations, assignments, new friends, changing routines, and the occasional conversation that ended with one of them promising to call back and forgetting to do so.

They had become comfortable enough to tease each other without worrying about how their words would be interpreted.

Sometimes, Aditya would call her just to complain about something completely irrelevant.

Sometimes, Ishita would send him a long series of messages about a problem that turned out to be entirely her own fault.

Sometimes, they wouldn’t have much to say at all.

And sometimes, one of them would simply ask, “Are you free?”

Not because anything had happened.

Just because they wanted to talk.

But then came Class Twelve.

Ishita had never experienced an academic year quite like it. There were examinations to prepare for, practicals to complete, entrance tests to think about, and an endless list of things that needed to be done yesterday.

Her phone became a distraction she could barely afford.

Their daily conversations became occasional messages. The occasional messages became missed calls. Sometimes, she would see a text from Aditya, smile at it, promise herself she would reply after finishing a chapter, and remember it only when she was getting ready for bed.

She hated it.

But she had no choice.

Ishita: I’m so sorry. I haven’t been able to talk properly these days.

Aditya: Boards?

Ishita: Unfortunately.

Aditya: Then study. We’ll talk when you’re free.

Ishita: You’re not annoyed?

Aditya: Ishita, go study.

Ishita: You’re so annoying.

Aditya: And yet you keep talking to me.

She smiled at her screen.

Then she put her phone away and returned to her books.

There were no dramatic arguments about being ignored. No accusations. No demands for attention.

Aditya understood.

And Ishita began to realise that a friendship didn’t necessarily become weaker just because two people had less time for each other.

Sometimes, life simply became busy.

Sometimes, caring about someone meant allowing them the space to do what they needed to do.

She didn’t know when she would next see him.

She didn’t know how much their lives would change.

But she knew that, somewhere in Mumbai, there was a boy who would tell her to stop overthinking and study for her boards.

And somehow, that was enough.

Graduation day arrived before Ishita felt ready for it.

The school corridors were filled with students taking photographs, teachers offering congratulations, and parents trying to capture every possible moment on their phones. Everyone seemed excited about the future.

Ishita was excited, too.

She was finally done with school.

She had survived Class Twelve.

She had plans for college, ideas about engineering, and a future that seemed both thrilling and terrifying.

She was also exhausted.

By the time the ceremony ended, she had taken approximately a hundred photographs, thanked several teachers, hugged her friends, and decided that she never wanted to look at another examination paper again.

She was standing near her family when someone called her name.

“Ishita.”

She turned.

And forgot, for a moment, how to speak.

Aditya was standing a few steps away, holding a bouquet of sunflowers.

For several seconds, she simply stared at him.

He looked older, naturally. A little different, perhaps. But his smile was the same one she remembered from the school corridors, the bus rides, and all those ordinary afternoons when she had pretended not to notice him.

“What are you doing here?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Attending a graduation ceremony. Very strange activity, I know.”

“Aditya!”

He laughed and held out the flowers.

“Congratulations, Ishita.”

She accepted the bouquet carefully, as though it might disappear if she moved too quickly.

Sunflowers.

Of all the flowers in the world, he had brought her sunflowers.

“How did you even know?”

“Your mother told mine. And then I decided that someone had to make sure you graduated successfully.”

“I graduated without your supervision, thank you very much.”

“Clearly. I’m very proud of you.”

The teasing expression on his face softened as he said it.

And something about those three words made her smile differently.

Not the nervous, helpless smile of the girl who had once panicked when he walked into her classroom.

A real smile.

The kind that came when someone who had known you for years looked at you and meant what they said.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

For a moment, she wanted to tell him everything.

That she had missed him. That she had thought about him during the difficult days. That she had kept his old messages. That there had been times when she had wanted to call him but had been too exhausted to find the right words.

Instead, she looked down at the sunflowers.

They were bright and cheerful, almost ridiculously so.

And somehow, they felt like the most Aditya thing he could have brought her.

That evening, they went out for dinner.

It was supposed to be a celebration of her graduation, but it quickly became an excuse to catch up on everything they had missed.

They talked about college, school, their families, their friends, and all the little things that had happened over the past four years.

Aditya told her stories about his college days. Ishita told him about the people she had met, the things she had learned, and the countless times she had nearly lost her mind preparing for examinations.

He laughed at her dramatic descriptions.

She complained that he wasn’t taking her suffering seriously enough.

He pointed out that she had voluntarily chosen to study engineering.

She told him that he was welcome to leave the restaurant.

He told her that he would, provided she paid the bill.

Some things, apparently, never changed.

But there were other things that had.

Ishita no longer sat across from him wondering whether she was talking too much. Aditya no longer had to search for questions to keep the conversation going. Neither of them felt the need to fill every silence or pretend to be someone they weren’t.

They had become comfortable with each other in a way that neither could have forced.

At some point during dinner, Aditya leaned back in his chair and looked at her.

“You’ve changed.”

Ishita narrowed her eyes.

“That sounds suspiciously like an insult.”

“It’s not.”

“Then explain yourself.”

He smiled.

“You used to look like you were about to run away every time I spoke to you.”

She nearly dropped her spoon.

“EXCUSE ME?”

“I’m serious! You’d answer one question and then stare at the floor like you’d committed a crime.”

“I was being polite.”

“You were terrified.”

“I was not!”

He laughed so hard that she had to look away, trying unsuccessfully to suppress her own smile.

“You’re still annoying,” she informed him.

“And you’re still a terrible liar.”

For a moment, they simply looked at each other.

Then Ishita started laughing, too.

It was such a small thing, laughing with him like this. She had imagined it a hundred different ways when she was younger. She had thought that if she ever became close to Aditya, every interaction would feel extraordinary.

But this was better.

Because it wasn’t extraordinary anymore.

It was ordinary in the most wonderful way.

He was no longer the boy she watched from the back of a classroom or the stranger whose smile she carried home in her thoughts.

He was the person who knew when she was overthinking, who remembered the little things she told him, and who could make her laugh even when she was determined not to.

And she, for once, wasn’t trying to impress him.

She was simply herself.

“So,” Aditya said, reaching for his glass of water, “what’s next for you?”

“Engineering.”

“I know that. Where?”

“Mumbai, hopefully. I’ve shortlisted a few colleges.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“Mumbai?”

“Yes.”

“That’s convenient.”

She tilted her head.

“Why?”

“Because I’ve spent years there telling you how terrible the traffic is. Now you’ll get to experience it yourself.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You’re so supportive.”

“I try.”

He told her about his own plans. He was returning to Chandigarh to live with his family and support them. After years away, he wanted to be closer to home and take on more responsibility.

For the first time that evening, their conversation grew quieter.

Their lives were moving in different directions again.

Ishita was preparing to leave for Mumbai, the same city that had once taken Aditya away from her. Aditya was returning to Chandigarh, to the home and family he had left behind.

It was strange how life worked.

Years ago, she had been the one watching him leave.

Now, she would be the one leaving.

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

“A little.”

“About college?”

“About everything.”

He nodded. He didn’t tell her there was nothing to worry about or that everything would be perfect.

Instead, he said, “You’ll figure it out.”

She looked at him.

“You sound very confident.”

“I’ve known you for years. You overthink everything, but you always figure things out eventually.”

She smiled.

“That might be the nicest insult anyone has ever given me.”

“You’re welcome.”

She laughed again.

And somewhere between the laughter and the quiet conversation that followed, Ishita realised something.

She wasn’t afraid of losing him the way she once had been.

They had already lived through distance, silence, busy schedules, and years in which their lives had changed almost completely.

They had found their way back to each other without needing everything to remain the same.

Perhaps that was what growing up meant.

Not holding on to every moment exactly as it was, but learning that something could change and still matter.

Later that night, after Aditya had dropped her home, Ishita placed the sunflowers in a vase beside her desk.

She stood looking at them for a long time.

Four years earlier, she would have written an entire diary entry about this day. She would have described the way he looked, the way he smiled, the way he said her name. She would have questioned whether the dinner meant something, whether the flowers meant something, whether the fact that he had travelled all that way to surprise her meant something.

Perhaps she would still write about it.

She was, after all, still Ishita.

But she didn’t feel the same desperate need to find a hidden meaning in everything anymore.

Aditya had come because he wanted to celebrate her graduation.

He had brought her sunflowers because he wanted to make her happy.

And he had spent the evening laughing with her because, somewhere along the way, she had become someone he was comfortable laughing with.

She didn’t need to turn those things into something else.

They were already beautiful.

Her phone buzzed.

Aditya: Reached your room safely?

She smiled.

Ishita: I live upstairs, idiot.

Aditya: Just checking.

Ishita: Thank you for today. Really.

A few seconds passed.

Aditya: You don’t have to thank me.

Ishita: I know. I still wanted to.

He replied with a sunflower emoji.

She stared at it for a moment before placing her phone on the desk.

Then she opened her diary.

For a long time, she simply looked at the blank page.

Finally, she began to write.

Dear diary,

Four years ago, I thought distance meant losing someone.

I thought that when Aditya left, all I would have were the memories of a boy who used to walk into my classroom with a spoon or a fork, a boy who smiled at someone else on the bus, a boy whose name could ruin an otherwise perfectly ordinary afternoon.

I thought I would spend those years wishing I could go back.

But I didn’t just get to remember him.

I got to know him.

I got to hear about his terrible college food, his friends, his assignments, and all the things that made him who he was. I got to tell him about my own life, too. I got to know the person behind the smile.

And today, when he stood in front of me with a bouquet of sunflowers, I realised that the boy I had once been so afraid to speak to had become someone I could talk to about absolutely anything.

Perhaps that is the nicest thing about growing up.

You stop wishing that people will become the people you imagined them to be.

Instead, you learn to love the little things about who they actually are.

And sometimes, if you’re lucky, the person you once knew only through tiny moments becomes someone who is still there when you look back.

She paused, tapping her pen against the page.

Then, beneath everything else, she wrote one final sentence.

I used to wish for a moment that would mean everything. I never realised that the best part would be having a thousand ordinary moments with him.

She closed the diary.

Outside, the city was quiet. Her future waited for her in Mumbai, full of unfamiliar places, new people, and possibilities she couldn’t yet imagine.

Aditya’s future waited for him in Chandigarh, with responsibilities he was ready to take on and a life he was beginning to build for himself.

They would get busy again. They would have days when they barely spoke. There would be new friends, new experiences, and countless things they would have to learn without each other beside them.

But there would also be messages.

Unexpected calls.

Ridiculous arguments.

Stories that began with You will not believe what happened today.

And, every now and then, a sunflower.

Ishita turned off her bedside lamp and lay down, smiling at the thought.

She had spent years wondering what she meant to Aditya.

Now, she was learning that she didn’t have to know the answer to every question.

Some things could simply be lived.

And somewhere, in a city she was about to call home, a new chapter was waiting.

This time, she wasn’t waiting for Aditya to walk into her classroom.

She was walking towards her own future.

And perhaps that was the most beautiful part of all.