The Girl from Section B

He didn't look at me when he handed over the notebook that week.

No casual smirk like last time. No soft teasing comment. Just a nod, and a single sentence:

"This one's heavier."

I waited until lunch break, sat in the empty corner of the office pantry, and slowly opened the worn pages. I didn't know what to expect.

But as the words began pulling me in, I realized something:

I wasn't just reading his past.I was living inside his memory.

[Ayan's Voice — Told to Her, Like a Story]

By the time I was in Class 1, I had already changed schools twice.Third school. Third set of uniforms. Third round of introductions.

I was used to starting over.

My name placed me in Section A — the system was simple:A to L in Section A, M to Z in Section B.

That's how I ended up never in the same class as her.

Sana.

I don't know if I liked her from the start. Maybe it was just fascination or maybe… it was that one moment.

Anurag — this boy in my section — had a temper. We were all six or seven, but he acted older, louder. Always trying to prove something.

One day, I saw him push Sana near the swings. Not a nudge — a full shove.

She fell, scraped her elbow. He was yelling something, but I didn't hear it.

Because I had already moved.

I walked straight up and slapped him.

Three times.

Not because I was brave.Not because I cared what anyone thought.Just because something inside me screamed:

"This isn't right."

Everyone stared. A teacher blew a whistle. I got dragged to the principal's room.

But in that moment — in my head — I thought I became her hero.

That one act… I thought maybe it meant something.

She didn't say thank you. Didn't talk to me after.

But that's how crushes work when you're six — full of imagination, barely any reality.

We never shared a classroom again.But I'd see her during recess sometimes — from afar.

And then suddenly, I didn't.

Because once again… I changed schools.

But this time, the reason wasn't some transfer or promotion.

This time, it was something I didn't understand until much later.

18th September, 2013

I was seven.

It was a strange day — tense from the start. My aunt had visited. She was married to a local Pradhan — a powerful man with influence and fear in equal measure.

My grandmother and mother had fought the night before. Nothing new.

But my aunt didn't know that when she came over. She invited my grandmother for tea.

Grandma refused. And finally, when pressed, she said something that stuck with me:

"We haven't spoken in five years. Why would I have tea now?"

Five years. Under the same roof. Sharing the same food.And not a single word spoken.

I didn't understand it then. I just remember the tight silence in the house.The kind that makes the walls feel like they're watching.

My aunt was angry.She fought with my mom. Said she'd never return. Walked out.

That night, my mother didn't say much.

She fed my baby brother — Arman — who was barely two months old.

She washed the dishes. She didn't shout. Didn't cry.

She just… sat there.

The next thing I remember is smoke.

Screams. Running. My father yelling. My grandmother banging on doors.

And me, standing there, barefoot on cold concrete, not understanding what I was seeing.

She had set herself on fire.

We tried calling my aunt. But she didn't come. Couldn't.Because if she did, they'd blame her.Instigation. Police. Arrests.

So she vanished from our life.

My mother survived the night.But not the morning.

19th September 2013.

She died in the hospital.And a part of me… died with her.

After that, silence became a permanent member of our house.

My Nana, my mother's father— came and screamed at my grandparents.

He said they had killed her. Said they were devils.And then, he took everything.

The house. The land. The respect.

We lived two long years in that same house — but not as a family.

As survivors.

Then, one day, my father said:

"I'm getting remarried."

And I didn't even cry.

Because I had already learned how to feel nothing.

[Back to Her POV — Present Timeline]

By the time I finished reading, my throat was dry. Not a single tear fell, but my chest felt crushed.

I had read tragic novels before.Watched emotional anime. Heard characters lose their mothers and say goodbye to innocence.

But this wasn't fiction.

This was Ayan.

This was a boy who stood up for a girl in school…Only to lose the one woman who gave him life.

When I looked at him across the office that evening, he was quietly sketching something on a notepad.

He looked normal.

But after reading his story, I realized…

Every time he smiles, he's hiding a hundred quiet earthquakes.

I wanted to ask — "Why are you sharing this with me?"

But something told me…

He wasn't trying to impress me. He wasn't even trying to explain himself.

He was simply letting me in. One page at a time.

And for reasons I still didn't understand…

I wanted to stay in his story. Even if it hurt.

Next week, he said he'd tell me about the woman who entered his life next — not a savior, but a storm.

And somehow, I already knew:

The story was going to get darker.But I didn't want to walk away.