“The Last Bench”

“The Last Bench”

It all b**egan in Room 304, second row from the back, near the window that always creaked when opened. Mira never wanted to sit there, but that day, her usual seat was taken. The only empty spot was beside Aarav—quiet, composed, always buried in his sketchbook.

They were in their final year of college, and despite sharing classes for three years, they'd never spoken more than a polite “excuse me” in passing. That changed on a rainy Thursday when she muttered under her breath about forgetting her umbrella.

“You can share mine,” Aarav said, not looking up from his sketch.

She hesitated. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Only if you don’t mind cartoons. My umbrella has Avengers on it.”

She smiled for the first time that day.

That small act began something neither of them could have anticipated. From awkward small talk under the rain to casual chats during lunch breaks, their bond grew gradually. Mira, talkative and impulsive, found Aarav’s calm nature comforting. Aarav, who always kept to himself, found her energy contagious.

Over time, their friendship became inseparable. People began to notice—the way Mira laughed more when Aarav was around, or how Aarav’s sketches started including a girl with curly hair and a lopsided grin. But they never labeled what they had. Not yet.

One late evening, as they sat under the gulmohar tree in the college courtyard, Aarav finally asked, “Do you ever think about the future?”

Mira looked at the sky, the orange-pink horizon reflecting in her eyes. “Sometimes. But it scares me.”

“Why?”

“Because everything feels so perfect right now,” she said softly. “And nothing perfect ever lasts.”

He wanted to tell her that maybe some things did last. That maybe, with her, he wanted to find out. But the words tangled in his throat.

Their friendship turned into something more—though never officially. No one ever said “I love you,” but the silences between them were loud with meaning. Mira began staying later on campus just to walk with Aarav to the station. Aarav started sketching her more than anything else.

But life, as it does, intervened.

Mira got a job offer in Bangalore—her dream role at a publishing house. Aarav was staying back in Mumbai, working on an animation project with a local studio. When she told him, he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“So that’s it?” he asked.

“I don’t want to leave,” she said, almost in a whisper.

“But you have to.”

They stood in silence, caught in the gap between desire and reality.

“I’ll write to you,” she said.

“I’ll draw you,” he replied.

Long-distance was harder than they imagined. Texts became shorter. Calls less frequent. Life pulled them in different directions. Mira thrived in her career, working late nights, meeting new people. Aarav found his creative voice, but the absence of Mira gnawed at him in quiet moments—like when he passed by the gulmohar tree or saw someone reading in a cafe.

Months passed. Then a year. Eventually, the silence between them felt heavier than the words they once shared.

On a rainy evening two years later, Mira returned to Mumbai for a cousin’s wedding. The city felt both familiar and strange. She didn’t plan to visit the college, but something pulled her back.

As she wandered through the empty corridors, she found herself at Room 304. The last bench by the window was still there. She sat down, her fingers tracing the scratches on the wooden desk.

“Mira?”

The voice stopped her breath.

She turned to see Aarav, older, sharper in the jaw, but with the same quiet eyes.

“I heard you were in town,” he said.

“I wasn’t going to come here,” she replied. “But…”

“This place has a pull, doesn’t it?”

They sat in silence, like before. But this time, it was heavy with memories.

“Why didn’t we try harder?” she asked.

“Because we were scared,” he said. “Of change. Of losing what we had.”

“I missed you,” she admitted.

“I never stopped drawing you,” he confessed, pulling out a worn sketchbook. He flipped to a page—a girl under a cartoon umbrella, laughing in the rain.

Mira blinked back tears.

“You were always the only person who made the rain feel warm,” he said.

She looked at him, heart pounding. “Do you think... we still have a chance?”

He smiled softly. “Only if you don’t mind starting from the last bench again.”

That day, they didn’t make promises. No grand declarations. But as they walked out of Room 304, side by side, the silence between them was no longer heavy. It was full of possibilities.

Love, they realized, wasn’t just about timing or distance. It was about returning—again and again—to the people who feel like home.