He went back to school.
But it didnât feel the same.
The hallways still smelled like wet books and dust.
The teachers still spoke too fast.
The chairs still creaked when you sat too slowly.
But something was missing.
Not something.
Someone.
She wasnât there to wave from across the hall.
Wasnât there to leave strange notes on his bench.
Wasnât there to call him âcloud boyâ like it meant something bigger than it sounded.
Her seat was still empty.
Same old wooden desk.
Same soft scratch marks from her pens.
Same dent from where she once dropped her head, saying, âI think my brain melted.â
He sat beside it again.
Not because he had to.
But because it felt like the only place where she might still exist.
----------------------------------------
People didnât ask him questions.
No one said,
âWhereâs that girl?â
Or
âDid she transfer?â
Or
âWerenât you two always sitting together?â
It was like her presence had never mattered to them.
But it mattered to him.
It mattered like rain to someone whoâs been thirsty for years.
Like warmth to someone who forgot how hugs felt.
Like noise to someone drowning in silence.
She had mattered.
And now that she was gone,
Everything looked too sharp.
Too dry.
Too loud in the wrong places⦠and quiet in all the ones that used to echo with her voice.
----------------------------------------
Some nights, he couldnât breathe.
He would lie on his bed,
Eyes wide open,
Staring at the fan.
It didnât move.
Not anymore.
He hadnât switched it on in days.
The air felt heavy.
Like every memory was pushing down on his chest.
And the dreamsâ¦
They had changed too.
Now, she came in pieces.
A smile.
A laugh.
A hand reaching out⦠then pulling away.
In one dream, she stood across a river.
No bridge.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
No boat.
Just water between them.
And her eyes â full of apology.
He shouted, âCome back!â
But she shook her head.
Then whispered something he couldnât hear.
He woke up crying.
Tears on his pillow.
Fingers curled tight around the paper crane.
Still intact.
Still hers.
Still the only proof he had that she was ever real.
----------------------------------------
A week passed.
Then two.
Then more.
He stopped counting.
But time didnât stop hurting.
He started doing things just to stay distracted.
Opened her sketchbook and copied her drawings.
Redrew the birds.
The skies.
Even the silly doodle she once made of him looking like a confused potato.
He tried to smile.
Sometimes he succeeded.
But mostly, he stared at the pages and whispered:
âWhere did you go?â
And the wind â
Sometimes â
Felt like it was trying to answer.
----------------------------------------
One evening, it rained.
Not the normal kind.
This rain felt different.
Sharp. Cold.
Like the sky had run out of patience.
He walked in it anyway.
No umbrella.
No jacket.
Just the same shoes she once teased him for wearing every day.
âDo they even come off your feet?â she had laughed once.
He had rolled his eyes.
Nowâ¦
He missed that laugh.
It rang louder than thunder in his mind.
He walked to the tree again.
The one by the bus park.
The place she had said, âCome tomorrow, if you wanna see something beautiful.â
It still stood.
Strong.
Old.
But lonelier now.
He sat on the bench, soaking wet.
Didnât care.
He pulled the sketchbook from his bag.
Opened to the last page.
And there it was.
A new drawing.
One he didnât make.
A new one that wasnât there before.
It showed a figure â
Curled up, sitting on a bench under a tree.
Rain falling.
Alone.
But above that figure â
A girl.
Drawn faintly in the clouds.
Her arms spread wide.
Like she was watching over him.
His hands began to shake.
He flipped the page.
There â
In small writing â
âYou found the places I left behind.â
âNow find the pieces of me still ahead.â
His breath caught.
He looked up at the sky.
Thunder rolled in the distance.
Wind passed through the branches.
And suddenlyâ¦
The rain didnât feel cold anymore.
----------------------------------------
He walked home differently that night.
Not faster.
Not slower.
Just lighter.
Like some part of her had whispered again through that drawing.
Like she wasnât gone completely.
Just⦠waiting.
Somewhere beyond.
----------------------------------------
The next day, he asked the librarian for an old notebook.
She handed him one.
Torn cover.
Empty pages.
He took it to his room.
Sat on the floor.
And started writing.
He didnât know why.
Just that his chest told him to.
First page â he wrote:
âFor the girl who turned my silence into sound.â
And after that â
He wrote everything.
Memories.
Notes.
Questions he never asked her.
He filled the pages with things like:
* âWhy did you find me out of everyone?â
* âDid you ever get scared you were fading?â
* âWhat color was your favorite dream?â
And more.
Even drew small sketches in the corners.
Birds.
Feathers.
Cranes.
He started to call it âher journal.â
Not for her to write in.
But for him â
To keep her alive through his own ink.
----------------------------------------
One morning, weeks later, he stood in front of the mirror.
He looked tired.
But something had changed.
His eyes werenât as empty.
His shoulders werenât as heavy.
He looked like someone who was still hurting â
But surviving.
And in his pocket â
The same old crane.
Crumpled.
Soft.
Sacred.
----------------------------------------
He walked to class.
Sat in the same seat.
A new girl had joined.
She sat in her spot.
Different eyes.
Different voice.
But he didnât hate her for it.
He smiled politely.
Then opened his book.
And before he started reading â
He placed the crane on the corner of the desk.
Like a reminder.
A quiet memory.
A sign:
She had been here.
And she still was â
Somewhere.
In the wind.
In the sky.
In every place she left behind.
----------------------------------------
That night, on the last page of the new journal, he wrote:
âIf youâre listening â
Iâm still broken.
But Iâm learning to walk with cracks in me.
And somehow⦠I think youâd be proud.â