Chapter 3: The Ride That Touched the Sky
It started with a note.
Folded neatly into a paper crane. Left on his desk.
He almost ignored it — just like he did with most things these days. But something about it felt different. It wasn't loud. It wasn't forcing him to feel better. It just existed — quietly, softly, like someone breathing beside you in the dark.
He picked it up and opened it.
Inside, five words written in looping letters:
"Wanna see something beautiful?"
He looked around. She wasn't there.
But she had left behind a second paper crane. This one had an address scribbled under its wing.
A place on the edge of town.
He didn't know why… but that night, after school, he went.
For the first time in months, he left the hostel not because he had to — but because he wanted to. The streets were busy, but he felt strangely calm. Like he was walking toward something important. Something he'd forgotten.
She was waiting at the edge of a small hill — an old, quiet place with rusted fences and wildflowers dancing in the wind.
She didn't say anything when she saw him.
Just smiled and nodded toward a rusty scooter.
"Get on," she said.
He hesitated.
"I don't even know your name," he said quietly.
She turned her head, hair blowing like feathers in the wind. "Then maybe it's time we stop knowing names… and start knowing skies."
He didn't know what that meant. But he climbed on.
And they rode.
Not toward anywhere. Just away.
Away from the school, the marks, the noise, the masks.
They passed fields, forests, forgotten roads. The wind slapped their faces, and the sun dipped slowly into golden silence.
He didn't talk. But she did.
She told him stories — half real, half dreams. About the time she flew a kite so high it disappeared into the clouds. About how she once danced in the rain until her fever broke. About how people spend their lives climbing ladders only to realize they were leaning against the wrong wall.
He didn't reply. But he listened.
And for the first time, listening didn't feel heavy.
After a while, she stopped the scooter near a wide, open cliff.
Below: nothing but sky and river and wind.
She looked at him and said, "This is where I come when I forget who I am."
He stood silently beside her.
"I know you feel lost," she whispered. "Like you don't belong here. Like the world gave you a map for a place you don't even want to go."
He flinched. How did she know?
She smiled sadly. "Because I've been there too."
He didn't say anything. But his eyes… softened.
"I don't want to fix you," she said. "I just want to remind you that you're still alive."
She pulled out a tiny speaker from her bag, played soft music — not happy, not sad. Just… honest.
Then, without warning, she ran toward the edge of the hill — not to jump, but to feel the wind.
Arms open. Eyes closed.
Laughing.
Free.
She looked back at him and shouted, "Come on!"
He shook his head. "I don't know how to laugh anymore."
"Then just breathe!" she called back.
And he did.
He ran.
Not from life, not from pain — but toward something.
The wind hit him like freedom. The world spread wide beneath him. For the first time in years, he didn't feel small.
He didn't feel broken.
He just… felt.
She turned to him, out of breath, cheeks red, eyes shining. "See? You're flying already."
He looked at her — really looked.
And smiled.
A real one.
The kind that hurts a little because you forgot how to use those muscles.
And in that moment, he didn't care about exams or careers or what society wanted.
He just knew one thing:
He was alive.
And he wasn't alone.