Chapter 5

Divya turned around, blinking back the tears that burned her eyes. The afternoon sun of Nagpur was merciless, but nothing compared to the heat rising in her chest — the shame, the heartbreak, the sting of betrayal. Behind her, the group of boys was still laughing, Ravi among them. His laughter wasn’t the loudest, but it was the one that hurt the most.

She had imagined that moment so many times — standing before him, trembling but brave, confessing her feelings under the old peepal tree. She had even rehearsed the words the night before, whispering into her pillow: “Ravi, I don’t know if you’ll ever feel the same, but I just wanted you to know…”

But reality was cruel. 

That night, she sat on her bed, staring at the open diary on her lap. Her handwriting — neat and round — filled the page with doodles of hearts around his name: Ravi. She ran her fingers over the ink, her throat tight.

“Maybe I was foolish,” she whispered to herself. “Maybe he never cared. Maybe I was just… a joke.”

Her mother called from the kitchen, “Divya, dinner’s ready!”

“I’m not hungry, Maa,” she said softly, wiping her eyes.

And then, in one swift, painful motion, she tore the page out. The sound of the paper ripping was louder than she expected — like the sound of something ending. She folded the torn page into a small square, then threw it into the dustbin.

That night, she cried herself to sleep.

A week later, her father’s transfer orders came through. He was being posted to Pune. Divya didn’t protest. She packed her books, her memories, and her broken courage. She didn’t tell anyone — not even Ravi. Only Pooja knew.

“Are you sure you don’t want to say goodbye to him?” Pooja asked quietly as they stood near the bus stop on her last day.

Divya shook her head. “Goodbyes are for people who care, Pooja. He didn’t.”

The bus left, and with it, a chapter of her life closed silently.

The next Monday, Ravi walked into class and frowned when he saw her empty seat. “Where’s Divya?” he asked absently.

“Transferred,” Arjun said with a shrug. “Her dad got posted.”

“Oh,” Ravi murmured, looking at her empty corner — the one near the window where she always sat with her head bent over her notebook.

His friends started joking again, but his laughter came slower that day. Something in him twisted when he remembered the way she’d looked at him before walking away — eyes glistening, face pale, but still holding her dignity like armor.

He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He just didn’t know what to say.

Years passed. Divya grew up, her pain hardening into quiet strength. She learned to speak with confidence, to smile without trembling. But every now and then, when she heard someone laugh cruelly — that same sharp, mocking laughter — her heart flinched.

Because somewhere, deep down, a seventeen-year-old girl still stood under that peepal tree, clutching a note that never reached the boy it was meant for.

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