A Moment in Time

✍️ PART 1 — The Photograph (Present Day)

The air was heavy with summer heat as Ayaan stepped into the attic of his parents' house for the first time in years. Dust floated lazily through the sunbeam streaming from the small, half-broken window. The air smelled like old books, mothballs, and forgotten time.

He wasn’t supposed to be here long—just pick up some boxes before leaving town for good. But the past had a way of stopping you, especially when it looked you straight in the face.

His fingers brushed against a dusty leather box buried under layers of school papers and brittle photo albums. Curiosity, or perhaps a gentle pull of memory, made him open it.

Inside was his old camera—rusty but intact. And tucked beneath it, folded carefully, was a photograph.

A girl stood in the middle of a rain-washed street, holding an open notebook like a shield from the drizzle. Her hair was a mess of waves, her eyes bright even in grayscale.

Mehyaan sat down hard on the floor, knees folding, heart racing. It was that photograph—the last one he took before she disappeared from his life without a goodbye.

He had taken hundreds since, for clients, newspapers, exhibitions. But none like this.

This one held silence. And truth.
And maybe something he never dared admit.

Part 2 — The Journal (Present Day to Past)

Ayaan held the photograph gently, brushing the edges like it might crumble if touched too firmly. He could still remember the exact moment it was taken — the smell of wet earth, the laughter echoing through the alley, and her voice calling his name like it was the most natural sound in the world.

He hadn’t said her name out loud in years.

“Meher,” he whispered.

The attic around him faded for a moment, replaced by the memory of monsoon rains and fourteen-year-old hearts.

Then, something else caught his eye—a worn-out notebook tied with red thread, buried beneath his old sketchpad. He untied the thread slowly, reverently, as if opening a shrine.

Inside: her handwriting.

“To Ayaan—because every story needs someone who listens.”

His breath caught.

It was her journal.

She had once joked that she never let anyone read it, not even her future self. But somehow, it had found its way here. To him.

As he flipped through the pages, ink-stained and smudged by time, a familiar rhythm returned. Meher’s words danced off the paper: fierce, dreamy, unfiltered. There were stories. Quotes. Scribbled thoughts. And fragments of conversations they once had under trees, in the school library, or while skipping tuition.

He closed his eyes, and just like that—the years peeled away.

Part 3 — First Meeting (Flashback)

2007
Saraswati Public School, Lucknow

It was a Thursday afternoon, unbearably hot, and the ceiling fan above Class 10-B spun slowly, more decorative than useful.

Ayaan sat at the last bench by the window, sketching the view outside: a dog chasing butterflies across the playground. He wasn’t popular, but he didn’t mind. People called him the “quiet creative type,” which was code for “weird but harmless.”

Meher walked in late.

New admission. Big eyes, slightly messy braids, and a stack of books clutched to her chest like armor.

“Roll number 28,” the teacher said. “Go sit in the last row.”

That was his row.

She slid into the seat next to him with a sigh, looked at his drawing, and smirked.

“You forgot the tail.”

He looked at her, confused. “What?”

“The dog. Outside. It has a white tail. It’s the best part.”

He blinked, then looked back at the window.

She was right.

From that day, everything began to change.

Part 4 — The Days That Followed

They talked about books. About dreams. About the things they noticed that others missed.

Ayaan learned Meher wanted to be a writer, not just any writer—“a real one,” she insisted, “the kind whose words feel like rain on dry earth.”

Meher learned Ayaan took photos when no one was watching—of birds in mid-flight, broken swings, his mother’s hands while knitting.

They began sitting together by choice, not by assignment.

Every day after school, they’d walk the long way home through the old railway road, even if it added twenty minutes.

“I like this road,” Meher said once. “It feels like it doesn’t lead anywhere urgent.”

Ayaan smiled. “Maybe we don’t have to be in a hurry.”

She grinned. “Let’s make that a rule.”

And they did.

Part 5 — The Festival & The Photograph

October came with its flurry of excitement—Durga Puja, lights on rooftops, music floating across neighborhoods.

Their school organized a storytelling competition.

Meher signed up, pushing Ayaan to be her photographer.

“Come on,” she said. “It’ll be fun. I’ll tell the story, and you’ll capture the moment.”

“What moment?”

“The one that changes everything.”

He didn’t understand then what she meant.

But he would.

That day, under grey clouds and light drizzle, she stood on the old library steps, narrating a story about time standing still and choices made in a heartbeat.

As she spoke her last line, she looked straight at Ayaan.