Sometimes the person you're afraid to lose — was always meant to stay In a city that never slows down, Aisha has learned to find her stillness in the most ordinary place — the 7:42 morning bus to school. Same seat. Same route. Same city rushing past the window. She knows this bus the way she knows her own heartbeat. Until one rainy Monday morning, a boy steps on at the very first stop — earphones in, window seat claimed, eyes carrying the quiet weight of someone who has arrived somewhere new and is still figuring out where he belongs. Advik. He doesn't know anyone. He doesn't say much. He just sits, watches the city go by, and somewhere between the third stop and the eighth — he becomes the most interesting thing on that bus. Aisha notices him before he notices her. That's how it always begins, doesn't it? Days pass. Then weeks. Then months. They never speak — not once. But there is an entire unspoken world between them. The way he instinctively shifts so she can get to her seat. The way she always has her earphones in but somehow always hears when he laughs quietly at something outside the window. The way their eyes meet in the dark reflection of the glass — just for a second — and both of them look away a little too slowly. Naino se naina tu mila — and neither of them knows what to do with that. Aisha tells herself it is nothing. He is just a boy on a bus. She tells herself this every single morning while her heart does something embarrassing the moment he steps on at stop number one. And then one afternoon, she overhears a conversation. "Advik is leaving, his family is moving again." Something inside her goes very still. Leaving. He is leaving. The boy she has shared a hundred silent mornings with — and never once had the courage to say a single word to — is leaving. And she never even told him her name. That night feels like Bairan — a restlessness she cannot explain, an ache for something she never even had. She lies awake thinking about every morning she wasted in silence. Every stop she could have said hello. Every reflection in the glass where she looked away too soon. She makes a decision. Tomorrow. Last bus ride. She will say something. Anything. Even if it is just hi. The next morning Aisha gets on the bus with a racing heart and rehearsed words and shaking hands — And she sits down. And she finally turns to him. And she says — "You're leaving?" Advik looks at her. A little confused. A small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Leaving?" he says. "I just got here. My dad was transferred — to this city. I'm not going anywhere." The world does something strange in that moment. It exhales. All those mornings. All that silence. All that time she spent watching him from two seats behind — and he was never passing through. He was always meant to stay. They laugh. Awkwardly. Beautifully. The way two people laugh when they realize they've been feeling something for a long time and there's no point pretending anymore. He asks her name. She tells him. And for the first time in months — the bus ride feels far too short. Because some stories don't end at the last stop. Some stories — finally begin there.