The Version He Misses..

That Friday, I was editing a messy draft from one of our ghostwriter clients in the office café — half-dead from caffeine, half-bored from clichés — when Ayan suddenly walked in, dropped his backpack like it had betrayed him, and looked around.

He didn't even glance at me. Just shouted casually to whoever was listening:

"6 PM. Park outside. I'm telling a story. Real one. Come or don't."

That's all.

Then he walked away, as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb into my routine.

I stared at the cursor blinking on my laptop.A story? In the park? Why? What kind of story? Why today?

Was it part of his upcoming book?Was he testing a scene on us?

I tried to ignore it — told myself I had deadlines. But by 5:52 PM, I was already outside, standing awkwardly near the benches under the guava tree where the interns usually smoked.

And he was already there. Sitting cross-legged on the grass like some storyteller from another time, sipping chai from a small paper cup, his phone on silent, the usual indifference in his expression.

By 6:05, a small group had formed — two interns, a typesetter, one guy from accounting, and me, the idiot who was pretending to check emails while waiting.

He looked up once and smiled — not at me, just in general — then began.

"I once laughed so hard in class... they punished me twice."

That was his opening line.

No warning, no intro. Just that.

The others chuckled. One girl asked, "Why? What happened?"

He leaned back like he was summoning the memory from a dusty shelf inside his head.

"Last period of the day. English. Amit Sir. Man had the scariest stare ever — like he could catch lies with his eyes."

The group laughed. Even I smiled.

"I don't know why, but that day I was… cracked. Just randomly happy. Sir told me to read aloud from the book. I stood up, opened the book, looked at the first line—"

He paused for dramatic effect.

"—and burst out laughing."

Even he laughed now, softly. Everyone else followed.

"Sir got pissed. Made me stand outside. But when I came back in, I saw my friend mimicking my face — and again, I lost it. Full-on giggle attack."

The group was now fully into it. Laughter echoed off the quietness of the evening.

But me? I wasn't laughing much.

I was watching him.

He wasn't performing.

He was remembering.

The way his eyes softened when he said "I don't even know why I was so happy"…The way his voice dipped when he said "I failed reading that paragraph, but I never forgot it"…

He wasn't just telling us a story.He was telling us himself — disguised as a joke.

One of the interns asked, "So, you ever saw that Amit Sir again?"

He blinked, surprised by the question. Then looked down at his empty cup and nodded once.

"Yeah. During board exams. He was standing outside the school. I didn't wave. Didn't say anything. Just saw him… and that was enough."

No one spoke for a few seconds.

Even the laughter felt like it had paused to respect that last line.

Eventually, people started getting up. The sky was shifting into pink and grey, and some had dinner plans. But I didn't move. I just sat there, pretending to tie my shoelaces.

Because that version of Ayan — the boy who laughed too much, got punished, and remembered it like it was his favourite mistake —That was the version I was starting to care about.

The version he missed.

But I saw.

And I stayed.