The morning sun cut through the windows of the rattling school bus in golden slashes. Dust swirled along the edges of the road outside, stirred up by the vehicles ahead. Inside, Ji-Ho sat with his friends, the familiar hum of the engine blending with the chatter and laughter around him. Normally, this ride was full of teasing, jokes, and the occasional paper ball fight—but today, a strange emptiness pressed against Ji-Ho's chest.
He scanned the seats, almost instinctively. Thanu's usual spot, right behind the driver, was empty. His stomach twisted, a strange mix of worry and disbelief settling over him.
"Where's Thanu?" he muttered under his breath.
Sekhar, catching the tail end of his question, snorted. "Missing someone already, hero?"
Narendra elbowed him lightly, grinning. "Oh-ho, looks like someone's heart skipped a beat this morning."
Ji-Ho flushed, trying to act nonchalant. "N-no, she's probably late. Yeah… late."
Ganga leaned back in her seat, smirking. "Late? Or sick? Or maybe she just didn't feel like witnessing your so-called heroics yesterday."
He shook his head quickly, attempting to shrug it off, but every passing second without seeing her made his mind race. Maybe she's sick… he thought, feeling a hollow knot in his chest. He kept glancing toward her seat, half-expecting her to magically appear, pulling her usual calm, teasing smile over her lips.
The bus jolted over a pothole, sending a few students' bags tumbling. Ji-Ho caught Sekhar's notebook, his hands brushing over the smooth cover. It felt absurdly comforting, even though it had nothing to do with the real problem: Thanu's absence.
"Hero, you're scowling like you just saw a ghost," Narendra teased, tossing a small paper ball at him. Ji-Ho batted it away clumsily, pretending not to care, but the worry lingered at the edge of his thoughts.
By the time the bus neared the school, Ji-Ho's friends were still teasing, but he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling. Normally, the walk from the bus stop to the classroom was full of jokes, playful shoving, and laughter, but today, the air seemed heavier.
When the bus doors hissed open, Ji-Ho hopped off, scanning the crowd of students filing into the building. Every familiar face passed by, and every empty bench in the classroom whispered her absence.
He practically sprinted toward the classroom, heart thudding. When he slipped inside, the seat where Thanu usually sat—second row from the window, sunlight spilling across the desk—was vacant. A small pang of disappointment twisted his chest.
Ganga leaned against his shoulder, grinning. "You're scanning the room like a detective looking for a missing artifact. Relax, hero. Maybe she overslept."
Ji-Ho shook his head, muttering, "No… she wouldn't. Something's wrong."
Sekhar chuckled from the back, stretching his arms lazily. "You're acting like she's some kind of queen missing from her throne. Take it easy, man."
He tried to focus on the lessons, but the words on the blackboard blurred. The chalk squeaked against the board, the teacher's voice droning on, the rustling of notebooks—all of it sounded distant. Every little noise reminded him of the moments Thanu had been there yesterday: her quiet laughter during group activities, the small, almost imperceptible smiles as he made his usual foolhardy jokes.
Even during math class, when he tried to solve a problem, his mind wandered. He imagined her sitting there, correcting his mistakes silently, occasionally peeking over her notebook. Each time his pencil tapped the desk, he half-expected her glance to meet his. But she wasn't there.
When the bell finally rang for lunch, Ji-Ho and his friends bolted out to the playground. The cricket pitch looked as usual: dry patches of grass, the boundary lines faint but visible, and the bright sun overhead. But even the familiar sights felt off without Thanu's presence.
"Alright, hero, show us that magic again," Narendra called, tossing him the ball.
Ji-Ho grinned faintly, trying to ignore the hollow feeling. He caught the ball, rolled his fingers over it, and bowled with a practiced flick. The game went on as usual, but each cheer from his friends felt slightly muted without Thanu's quiet encouragement from the sidelines.
He swung the bat, hit a six, and everyone erupted in laughter and applause. But Ji-Ho barely smiled. He watched the ball soar, then imagined Thanu clapping softly, maybe teasing him about overdoing it. Her absence made the victory hollow, as if the cheers had no weight.
Narendra nudged him. "You okay, bro? You're acting like the ball was cursed or something."
Ji-Ho rubbed his temple, forcing a laugh. "Yeah… just… tired, I guess."
Ganga rolled her eyes. "Tired from worrying about someone?"
His friends didn't need to know he was thinking about Thanu. Instead, he tucked the thought away, pretending to focus on the game, even though every hit, every run, every cheer reminded him of her absence.
By the afternoon, word had spread: Thanu wasn't at school because she had a fever. A small wave of concern hit Ji-Ho. His stomach churned with guilt and worry.
"She's sick?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.
Sekhar nodded. "Yeah, apparently. Poor thing. I heard her mom called in this morning."
Ji-Ho's fingers twitched, restless. He wanted to go visit her, bring her something, ask if she was okay. But a part of him hesitated—what if she didn't want him around when she was feeling miserable?
He paced the classroom during free period, thinking. Every plan he came up with seemed either too silly or too awkward. Eventually, he settled on writing a note, something simple to make her smile without embarrassing himself.
"Get well soon, Thanu! Don't let the fever win. – Ji-Ho"
He folded it carefully, slipping it into his bag. It wasn't much, but it was something.
The school day dragged on, each hour stretching longer than the last. Ji-Ho found himself glancing at Thanu's empty desk repeatedly. Even small things—her pencil case, the faint smell of jasmine from her water bottle, the tiny crease she always made on her notebook's corner—felt painfully absent.
When the final bell rang, signaling the end of the day, Ji-Ho gathered his things slowly. His friends tried to pull him along for the walk to the bus, but he lingered, staring at the empty seat one last time.
"C'mon, man! The bus won't wait forever," Narendra called.
Ji-Ho nodded, grabbing his bag, but the walk felt slower than usual. Every footstep echoed the absence he felt in the classroom. The evening breeze carried a hint of the jasmine from Thanu's neighborhood, teasing him with the thought of her presence.
When he reached home, the quiet of the house pressed down on him. His father was busy with accounts, his grandmother fussed over dinner, and his younger brother was still away at the hostel. There was no one to share the day's anxieties or cricket tales.
Ji-Ho pulled out the note from his bag and reread it silently. He could almost imagine her smile as she opened it. A small warmth spread through his chest, battling the worry and loneliness that had clung to him all day.
"I hope she's okay," he whispered to himself, tucking the note into a safe pocket.
That night, Ji-Ho lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan slowly spinning in the dim moonlight. His hand itched to text, to call, to somehow check if she was alright. But he resisted, deciding the note would have to do.
The soft night air drifted through his open window, carrying the faint sound of crickets and distant barking dogs. Ji-Ho imagined Thanu under her blankets, possibly shivering slightly from the fever, and a strange mix of determination and worry filled him.
Tomorrow, he decided, he would do something special. Something to make her smile, to remind her that even when she was absent, she mattered.
With that thought, his eyes grew heavy. The quiet loneliness of the house, the distant stars outside, and the memory of her laughter combined into a gentle lullaby. Ji-Ho drifted off to sleep, a plan forming in his mind—a plan for the next day, for Thanu, and for the small ways he could turn an empty bench into a reason for joy.