Lessons in Love

The bell rang with its usual sharpness, signaling the start of yet another class. The classroom buzzed with chatter, notebooks flipping open, chairs scraping back into place. On the third bench near the window, Aarav adjusted his glasses and silently took out his economics textbook. He was always early—always prepared. He liked the order of things. But today, as the sun angled through the dusty panes and cast golden patches on the desks, something in the air felt different.

It was the day she returned.

Meher walked into class as if the world hadn't skipped a beat without her, even though it had for him. She'd been gone for a week, sick, according to rumors. But for Aarav, the past seven days had felt like a month—classroom discussions duller, hallways emptier, and his coffee breaks strangely quiet.

She slid into the seat beside him, flashing that small, familiar smile that always seemed to soften the edges of the world. “Hey, Aarav,” she whispered, nudging his notebook playfully. “Missed me?”

He looked up, trying to suppress the ridiculous smile tugging at his lips. “You missed the microeconomics test,” he said instead.

She groaned. “Trust you to remind me of that first.”

But there was a twinkle in her eyes that told him she was glad to be back. And deep down, he was glad too—more than he cared to admit.

Aarav and Meher had been classmates since the first semester of college. She was everything he wasn’t—carefree, loud in the best way, always scribbling poems in the margins of her books. He, on the other hand, lived by timetables, sticky notes, and the comfort of control. And yet, somewhere between shared assignments and group projects, a quiet bond had formed—one that neither of them could quite name.

They sat beside each other in nearly every class now. She teased him about his meticulous notes; he rolled his eyes when she doodled hearts in her margins. But in between those teasing glances and casual conversations, something real had been growing—unspoken but undeniably there.

It came to a head one Thursday afternoon.

The class was half-empty. A surprise quiz had sent most students scrambling, but Meher stayed. Aarav was still there, as always. The teacher left them a short break. The room quieted, and for once, neither of them reached for their phones.

Meher looked out the window. “Ever think about how fast this is all going? Like, in just a few months, we’ll be done. No more classrooms. No more of this.”

He looked at her, curious. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

She shrugged. “It’s just… I don’t know. Some things I’m not ready to leave behind.”

There was a pause, filled only by the hum of the ceiling fan and distant laughter from the hallway.

Then, almost without thinking, she said, “I think I’m going to miss you the most.”

His heart thudded in a way textbooks never made it thud. He tried to speak, but the words tangled up somewhere in his chest.

She noticed. “Too much?” she asked, half-laughing.

“No,” he finally said, his voice soft. “Just unexpected.”

Over the next few weeks, things shifted.

They began walking to the bus stop together, their footsteps slowly syncing. Meher started saving him a seat before lectures. Aarav, in a move that stunned everyone, skipped a class once just to help her shop for a new backpack. They weren’t officially anything, but everyone could tell something was happening.

Then came the annual college fest.

The campus turned into a carnival—colorful stalls, loud music, drama performances, and too many selfies. Meher dragged Aarav into it all, from food tastings to a poetry open mic. She even convinced him to write a poem with her. They called it “Two Sides of a Page”, and when they read it together on stage, something clicked.

That night, walking back under the stars, she slipped her hand into his.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

But like every story worth telling, this one had its storm.

Final semester brought pressure. Applications, interviews, grades—it all loomed like an unspoken deadline. Aarav became distant, drowning in preparation. Meher, ever the dreamer, was applying for a creative writing course abroad. They found themselves walking different paths, even as their hearts remained stubbornly tied.

One evening, she confronted him. “Why are you shutting me out?”

“I’m not,” he said, too quickly.

“You are. You think love is a distraction. That feelings don’t fit in your planner.”

He looked at her, guilt flooding his face. “I’m scared,” he admitted. “Of losing focus. Of losing you. Of everything changing.”

She softened. “Change isn’t always bad, Aarav. Some chapters end so better ones can begin.”

And just like that, she kissed him—gently, firmly, like a comma in the middle of a sentence. Not an end. Just a pause.

Graduation day arrived with caps tossed into the sky and tearful hugs. Meher got accepted into her dream program in London. Aarav received a research offer from a local university. They stood at the campus gate one last time, their hands linked, their eyes heavy with everything they couldn’t say.

“What now?” she whispered.

He smiled, slipping a small, folded note into her palm. “A lesson they never taught us.”

She opened it later on the plane.

Inside, in his neat handwriting, it said:

“Some lessons you don’t learn in classrooms. You learn them in the spaces between—the shared glances, the silent support, the laughter you never saw coming. And the biggest one? That love, real love, is worth rewriting your plans for.”

Years Later

They met again—older, wiser, but still the same at the core. He had flown to London for a conference. She was launching her second poetry book.

He showed up at her event, waited at the back of the room until she finished reading.

When she spotted him, she didn’t run, didn’t cry. She just smiled and said, “Took you long enough.”

He grinned, holding up a new notebook. “I thought maybe we could write the next chapter together.”

Because some lessons… were never meant to stay inside textbooks.