"The Last Bench Promise"

Story Body:

It all started on the last bench.

A place where most students hid from teachers — but for Ayaan, it became the beginning of something unforgettable.

He was the quiet one. Always late, always lost in thoughts — the kind of boy who believed love was just another distraction.

Then one rainy morning, Mira walked into class — new, confident, and with a spark in her eyes that could make anyone forget the world.

She scanned the room, every seat taken except one — beside Ayaan.

“Hi,” she said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Can I sit here?”

He nodded, pretending to read his notes, but his heartbeat had already started a story his mind couldn’t stop.

Days turned into weeks.

At first, they exchanged awkward smiles, then jokes about professors, then coffees in the canteen.

Mira loved sketching — her notebooks were filled with tiny drawings, while Ayaan loved music — his playlist became her comfort.

Soon, the last bench wasn’t just a seat; it was their world.

That’s where she’d tease him about his messy handwriting, and he’d roll his eyes but secretly smile.

During lectures, they’d whisper random things — what life would be like after graduation, or how scary adulthood sounded.

One afternoon, when sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, Mira asked,

> “Do you ever think about forever?”

Ayaan smiled. “I don’t even think about tomorrow.”

She laughed, but there was a flicker in her eyes — something soft, something hidden.

Months passed. They became inseparable.

Everyone called them “the last bench couple.”

Their classmates joked that even if the world ended, Ayaan and Mira would still be arguing over coffee flavors.

But then came the final semester.

The laughter faded. Mira started missing classes.

At first, Ayaan thought it was exams or stress — until she stopped replying to messages.

He went to her hostel. The warden said she had gone home for “some treatment.”

When she returned after a month, she looked paler, thinner, but her smile remained.

“Ayaan,” she whispered one evening on the bench, “Promise me something.”

“What?”

“No matter what happens… you’ll never stop sitting here.”

He frowned. “You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, forcing a smile. “Just promise.”

He promised. Without knowing that promises sometimes break hearts.

A week later, Mira stopped coming altogether. Her phone was off.

Days turned to weeks. Then one morning, Ayaan received a message — from her number.

But it wasn’t her.

> “This is Mira’s cousin. She wanted you to have this.”

Attached was a photo — Mira sitting on the last bench, smiling, holding her sketchbook.

On the cover, in her handwriting:

“If love ever had a classroom, you were my favorite lesson.”

Ayaan froze. His mind refused to accept it, but the truth was cruel — Mira was gone.

She had been fighting cancer quietly. She didn’t want pity. She didn’t want to be remembered as “the sick girl.”

She just wanted to be remembered as his last bench girl.

That evening, he walked into the empty classroom.

The chairs were dusty, but her presence lingered.

On the last bench lay her doodled notebook — pages filled with sketches of the two of them laughing, arguing, dreaming.

He traced his fingers over her last note:

> “Don’t cry, Ayaan. Some stories are beautiful even when they end.”

Tears blurred his vision, but he smiled — because even in her goodbye, she had left him something eternal.

Every year, on the same date, Ayaan returns to that bench.

He brings her favorite white rose, places it gently on the seat beside him, and whispers —

> “You still sit here, Mira… just on the other side.”

And for a moment, it feels like she never left.

The wind from the open window flutters the pages of her old notebook, and the sunlight falls gently on the words she once wrote.

Ayaan closes his eyes.

The classroom may have changed, the students may be different — but that last bench still belongs to them.

Because some stories don’t end when people leave.

They end when memories fade.

And Ayaan’s never did.