I reached the tea shop just after the school bell rang, when the street outside the gate bloomed into chaos. Cycles clattered, kids yelled goodbyes, and the air was thick with dust, heat, and stories unfinished.
There it was. The same rusting bench, paint chipped off the legs. The same tiny counter, with the owner pouring tea like a machine, barely looking up.
And there he was.
Hari.
He sat on the low stone wall beside the shop, hunched slightly, earphones plugged in, a half-empty glass of tea beside him. His shoes were still too loose on him, the laces always undone. His bag lay beside him like it had been dropped carelessly — or maybe like he wanted someone to sit beside it.
I walked slowly.
Every step felt like peeling back a layer of fear.
What if he looked up and saw me and turned away? What if the letter was years too late, even if only days had passed?
I stopped in front of him.
He didn't see me at first. He was staring into space, music probably loud enough to drown the city.
I sat down beside him.
A pause. Then he turned.
His eyes narrowed. "You skipping school now?"
I laughed. A nervous, ugly little sound. "Guess I am."
He didn't smile. He looked back at the street.
I watched him carefully, trying to read what version of him I was seeing. Angry Hari? Tired Hari? Or the one who used to steal my lunch just to eat beside me?
"I found something," I said.
He didn't answer.
I reached into my pocket and took out the letter. I didn't give it to him. I just held it in my hand, resting on my knee.
He saw it. His expression didn't change, but his eyes did. Just slightly. A flicker of something — dread? recognition?
"I never read it before," I said. "I didn't even know it existed."
"I didn't mean for you to," he said softly.
We sat in silence. The kind that buzzes around your ears when truth presses in too close.
"You thought I'd outgrow you?" I asked after a while.
He shrugged. "People do."
"I didn't," I said. "I was just… stupid."
"Yeah," he said, still looking away. "You were."
I let the insult settle. I deserved it.
"I missed you," I said.
That made him look at me again. Really look. "Then why didn't you say anything?"
"Because I thought you stopped caring."
He scoffed. "I wrote you a whole damn letter, man."
I smiled. He didn't.
But after a few seconds, he took out one earphone and handed it to me.
It was a silent offering. The kind we used to make without words. The kind that meant I'm still mad, but I don't want you to go.
I took the earphone.
The music was something we both used to love. A song we played on loop during the summer we promised to make a band that never happened.
We didn't say much after that. Just sat, listening, watching the street grow quieter.
Sometimes forgiveness didn't need grand apologies. Sometimes it started with just… sitting.
And staying.