Love Before Graduation-Chapter 82: Holding On

Raghav sir said nothing.

Nothing — as if silence itself were a punishment,

as if he had words more frightening than speaking.

We slowly returned to our seats, dragging ourselves,

like criminals returning from court —

just granted bail, but their sentence already decided.

Raghav's eyes?

They were not eyes,

they were burning bars that pierced down to our bones.

That chemistry reaction written on the board

was not a reaction at all,

but a death warrant.

I held my notebook

as if it were a broken relationship —

from which only some fragments remained to be saved.

Nami sat beside me,

like a burning poetry

that, upon being touched, had turned into anger.

"We'll fail," she whispered softly,

as if praying a curse instead of a blessing.

"Because of you."

Her face was not villainous —

but that of a woman who had sworn an oath to an unfinished love.

I put on innocence —

an innocence that was actually a confession of guilt.

She was silent, but I could hear —

every word, every thought, every conspiracy —

she was cursing me in the language without words.

I opened my notebook again,

when my eyes drifted to the corner.

Arin.

Playing with a pen,

as if he held the remote of time in his hands.

And at that moment —

the classroom inside me collapsed.

The bell rang.

But it was no bell of relief —

it was a bell of confusion.

The kids ran out, as if escaping an experiment.

The sounds of chairs, chains of bags —

all seemed like echoes of another life.

I stayed seated, gathering my books,

as if collecting ashes of a time long gone.

Nami looked at me, raising her eyebrows —

"What now? Dreaming again?"

I looked toward the door.

Arin was leaving, his steps carrying that calm

that only those who cannot be stopped possess.

My heart turned against me again.

"No, just thinking."

Nami rolled her eyes —

"You're always thinking.

That's why everything falls apart."

Then she smiled —

a smile full of both sarcasm and consolation.

"Come on, lovebird, let's go."

We stepped outside.

Sunlight spilled in the corridor —

like an old letter, sent but never read.

Shadows were long,

as if our fears stood in another time.

School was over,

but the storm inside me had just begun.

We walked slowly down the corridor —

like following a funeral procession.

But this funeral was not for a body —

it was for the innocence that Nami once carried.

Nami's steps were quick, her words tangled.

Her face was hard —

as if she had been told since childhood that crying was not allowed.

Her eyes were not towards the sun, but to the ground —

as if watching time crawl by.

Nami —

whom everyone thought was my friend,

actually carried her own story.

There was a time when she was like me,

laughing, mischievous, full of hope.

Her dad...

perhaps the last person in the world who told her fairy tales.

But one evening —

when the neighborhood lights were out and the rain didn't stop —

Nami came home and saw her mother with a stranger,

and her dad's suitcase lying near the door.

What broke that day

was not just her home.

Her eyes lost their fairies,

replaced by a wall.

That wall was called — responsibility.

She became responsible —

for her little sister, for her dad's hopes,

and for suppressing her own emotions.

Now she didn't believe in love.

Boys like Arin hurt her —

they steal a heartbeat and disappear.

And me?

I often troubled her —

with my innocent antics, my way of looking at Arin.

Walking down the corridor,

I realized Nami wasn't angry with me —

she was angry at herself,

for watching someone being destroyed and not being able to stop it.

Her silence, her sarcasm, her laughter —

all said —

"Don't break, you can't afford to."

We had reached the stairs.

Down in the field, the sunlight was fading.

And I thought —

maybe Nami's hatred is also a kind of love.

Just her way is a little different.