Subtitle: A Dream Too Real to Forget
It began in a building I didn't recognize, yet somehow felt drawn to—like a memory from a past I never lived. Beside me was a girl named Sang Zhi Zhi, a name too poetic for someone so real, and yet fitting, considering how often drama dreams its way into my sleep these days. We drifted through sun-lit corridors, our steps soft but sure, like petals falling in a breeze.
A cluster of familiar faces appeared near a staircase—my former best friends, tangled in half-familiar warmth and old hesitations. I exchanged a few words, polite but distant, before realizing something was off. Sang Zhi Zhi had disappeared. My feet carried me forward in search of her, urgency tingling under my skin. And then, through the layers of distant voices, I heard his—familiar and magnetic, like gravity calling me home.
He was heading down the stairs, unaware—or perhaps pretending to be. I called out, "Sang Zhi Zhi!" half in search of her, half in desperate hope he'd look back. But he didn't. The ache of being invisible stung quietly.
I reached the ground floor, empty-handed and a little hollow. My hands clutched a white t-shirt and an open shirt—his silhouette somewhere in the background, also dressed in white. I passed near him, close enough to catch his scent, but I pretended not to notice. Maybe that was the only dignity I had left in that moment.
Eventually, I rejoined my friends. My friend leaned in, whispering, "She's pretty," about someone who never truly existed—an illusion my mind had conjured, beautiful yet baseless. I laughed. Because how could someone who was never there be compared to the ache I held?
I pulled on a black t-shirt—he wore black now too. It was as if we were mirrors at a distance, reflecting unspoken things neither of us said aloud.
Then came tension. A scene unfolding at the center of the building. He was speaking to his best friend with frustration etched into every word:
"Agar tujhe meri help nahi chahiye toh clearly bol. Main nahi karunga. Saath dunga tera, par aise faltu mein apne efforts waste nahi karunga."
His voice was stern, yet tired. I stopped a boy passing by—strangely, he looked like Sidharth Malhotra—and asked what had happened.
He explained that, that his friend had cheated—he'd known about the exam paper in advance. The marks, the praise, the smiles—they had come with a hidden cost. And now, he was being judged. They were all turning against him, but our loyalty refused to. Friendship still lived in the corners of our hearts.
Suddenly, we saw the two of them—him and his best friend—arm wrestling. But he wasn't trying. He let himself lose, gave up the win with a quiet smile, letting his friend climb atop him in victory. It was ridiculous and strangely endearing, and we all burst into laughter from where we stood, a little hidden, a little heartstruck.
Other friend of mine nudged me with a teasing grin. "Mujhe abhi bhi yaad hai jab tu usse bahut pyaar karti thi," she whispered. I smiled and brushed it off, urging everyone to leave.
But fate had more pages to turn.
We ended up in a classroom—rows of desks, quiet sunlight spilling through the windows. He sat in the last row, left corner, right side. I wasn't sitting. Not yet. Instead, I wandered, hoping he'd notice. I picked up a bottle and returned it to, a past friend who seemed to understand more than she let on. She laughed softly, knowing what I was doing.
The same friend walked ahead of him and sighed, "Abhi toh saara samaan pack karna hai. Kaun karega?"
I offered eagerly, "Main kar dungi."
But another past friend of her cut in, her voice sharp. "Tu hat ja. Main kar lungi."
It stung more than I expected. Her words sliced through old wounds that hadn't healed. I stepped back and returned to my current friend's desk—just across from his—and broke into a whispering storm. I spoke too fast, too emotionally. "She knew. She still did it. Why does she get to push me away? Jab usse ko koi problem nahi thi toh usko kya?" Tears threatened to fall, and I wiped them away with a crumpled tissue in my hand. I don't know if he saw—but others did. Their eyes were kind, their silence louder than pity.
A sudden announcement came—"All girls must leave."
I thought it meant the first round, but my friend confirmed—all. She stood to go. And so did his best friend. He brushed past her in a moment that looked like he touched her waist. We both froze. She stood, stunned. He never looked back.
She waited for me. I stood too.
Then—he looked at me. His face rested in his hand, eyes soft, tilted slightly toward me. A quiet smile played on his lips.
"Kya hua?" I asked, laughing softly. "Tujhe bhi yahi karna hai kya?"
"Try kar sakta hoon. Mann toh hai," he replied.
And before I could reply, his hand found my waist. Gently, protectively, he lifted me and placed me beside my friend. I didn't even know how to process the warmth—how his touch made my heart stammer and breath stutter. My body forgot time. All I knew was I wanted to stay.
But I'd forgotten my bag.
We both returned to the classroom. Just him and me. My stuff was scattered. He packed it all carefully, glancing at me. "Ye sab tera hai? Itna saamaan kaise uthayegi?"
I smiled, feeling like I was floating through honeyed air.
Someone called out. He turned briefly, his fingers tightening the last zipper. The dream faded. The class dimmed. My heartbeat stilled. And morning stole him away.
I woke up with his touch still blooming on my skin.