Almost Love

They met in a tutoring class one summer, the kind of class no one really wanted to be in. Aarav was there for math. Mira, for English. Neither expected anything beyond test prep and long afternoons under humming ceiling fans.

But they ended up sharing a bench, and somehow, that made all the difference.

At first, they didn’t talk. Aarav doodled in the margins of his notebook while Mira underlined words with careful precision. He asked to borrow a pen. She handed him one without looking. But by the end of the first week, they were sharing snacks and exchanging dry comments about the tutors. It was easy, natural.

He liked bikes, action movies, and never did his homework on time. She liked books, silence, and poems she wrote in secret. They were different in most ways, and yet, they fit—like mismatched puzzle pieces that still locked together.

Every day after class, they sat on the same park bench outside, under a tree that cast perfect shade. Aarav would sketch clouds or nothing in particular. Mira always wrote in her journal. They sat at opposite ends but never felt far apart.

One afternoon, Aarav broke the silence.

“Do you think we’re... more than friends?” he asked, eyes still on the sky.

Mira didn’t stop writing. “Sometimes,” she said quietly.

He smiled without turning. “Yeah. Same.”

That was it. No confessions, no dramatic moments. They didn’t need them. What they had was softer—uncertain but real.

When tutoring ended, so did their little routine. School started again. They had different schedules. The messages slowed, the calls faded. Mira joined the poetry club. Aarav got into sports. Life moved on, like it always does.

They still saw each other in passing—smiles in the hallway, a wave across the courtyard. But the bench under the tree stayed empty.

A year passed.

Sometimes Mira would sit there alone, journal open, wondering if he ever thought of that summer. Aarav, too, sometimes found himself drawing circles in his notebook, thinking of her. But neither reached out. Some silences grow too big to cross.

On the last day of school, Mira found herself back at the bench. The tree hadn’t changed. The air still held the weight of that summer. She didn’t expect to see him again.

But there he was, walking toward her, hands in pockets, hair a little longer.

“You still write?” he asked.

She smiled faintly. “Do you still draw?”

He shrugged. “Not really.”

He sat down—his usual spot on the other end of the bench.

They sat for a while, the sun dipping low, casting golden light over everything. No rush. No pressure. Just a quiet moment, shared like old times.

“I missed this,” he said after a while.

“I know,” she replied softly.

He looked down at his hands. “We never talked about it.”

She shook her head. “No. Maybe we didn’t need to.”

A pause, full of things they still wouldn’t say.

Mira tore a page from her journal and held it out to him.

“Don’t read it now,” she said.

He took it, confused but curious.

She stood, gave him one last look—the kind that feels like goodbye—and walked away.

Aarav waited until she was gone before unfolding the paper.

There, in her neat, round handwriting, was just one line:

“We were almost something. And maybe that was enough.”