Arya's P.O.V.

As I settle into the backseat of the car beside Raj, the engine roars to life, and we embark on our familiar journey to school. Raj's voice, animated and brimming with excitement, fills the air as he recounts the latest action movie we've seen.

"It was amazing, Arya!" Raj exclaims, his eyes gleaming with the kind of fervor only he possesses. "That car chase scene in the movie is beyond insane. I mean, the way they pull off those death-defying stunts, it's like they defy the laws of physics. And the fight on top of the skyscraper - it's simply mind-blowing!"

I try to muster a smile, to be the best friend Raj deserves, but deep down, I know I'm failing miserably. My mind is an intricate labyrinth of its own, and my thoughts are lost in its shadows.

As Raj's words paint vivid images of the movie's thrilling sequences, I feel like a spectator, distant and detached. I nod at the right moments, offering vague responses like, "Oh, yeah, that was impressive," or, "I remember that part." But the truth is, I remember very little from the movie.

Raj's voice continues to wash over me, a soothing background noise that I cling to like a lifeline. I long to share with him the relentless ache that still consumes me, but I can't bear to pull him into the darkness that threatens to suffocate me.

The car glides through the familiar streets, and my gaze remains fixed on the passing scenery, but my thoughts are adrift, carried away by the turmoil within. I can't help but wonder if Raj senses my detachment, my ongoing struggle to maintain the facade of normalcy. But he doesn't probe; he knows me well enough to respect the sanctuary of silence when I need it.

As the car nears the school, I take a deep breath, summoning the strength to face another day of pretense. The world around me has moved on, and I have no choice but to move with it, even though my heart remains ensnared in the unrelenting grip of grief and guilt.

I step out of the car, and take a moment to absorb the bustling atmosphere of our school. Laughter and animated conversations fill the air as students move in groups, their energy a sharp contrast to my own. I feel like an outsider, a spectator in this vibrant world that I was once an active part of.

We stand near the main gate, and I can't help but notice the students sitting under the ancient oak tree in the schoolyard. That tree, a silent witness to countless stories and secrets, seems to stand as a symbol of the enduring life that continues around me. But for me, it's as if an invisible wall has been erected, separating me from the world outside. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to break through it, can't seem to allow myself to be happy like I used to.

As we walk towards the school building, Raj, ever the optimist, sighs dramatically. "Arya, did you prepare for the weekly quiz? It's zoology today," he asks, a hint of playful concern in his voice. Inside, I scoff at the idea of caring about quizzes and studies anymore. The reality is, I can't even remember what I studied in class yesterday, let alone prepare for an upcoming quiz.

I glance at Raj, and even though I appreciate his efforts to keep my spirits up, I can't help but feel that the world I once knew has changed irreversibly, leaving me adrift in a sea and I'm trying my best not to drown.

In a feeble attempt to brighten the atmosphere, I take a deep breath and muster a response in a tone that once came easily to me. I shoot a mischievous grin in Raj's direction.

"Prepare for a quiz, Raj? Did you forget, I'm a walking encyclopedia? Arya, the prodigy of all prodigies," I proclaim, my voice filled with faux confidence. It's a far cry from the Arya I used to be, but I hope my act is convincing enough.

Raj raises an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes as he teases me in return. "Oh, the legendary Arya, our zoology guru? I must have forgotten that you can even tell a frog's favorite song. It's 'Croak-n-roll,' right?"

I can't help but crack a small smile at his goofy joke. He's trying to play along, to engage me in the lighthearted banter we once shared. I see the genuine warmth in his eyes, and for a brief moment, I almost believe my own act. But beneath my bravado, the turmoil persists, a silent tempest that refuses to be quelled.

Raj seems satisfied with my response, and as we make our way down the bustling hallway, I can't help but wonder how easily I've adapted to this facade of normalcy. It's as if my life has been split into two distinct halves, the one before and the one after. I can't escape the lingering grief and guilt that weigh down my heart, but I'm determined to maintain a semblance of the person I once was.

The classroom door swings shut behind us, and Raj and I make our way to our familiar seats, side by side. It's a ritual, a comforting routine that's remained unchanged through the turbulent storm that's enveloped my life. As we settle into our seats, the atmosphere inside the room is charged with the buzz of youthful conversations and laughter. But there's an undercurrent of unease between us.

I can't help but wonder what's transpired between Raj and Dev. They used to be like peas in a pod, inseparable. He and Raj shared a bond that seemed unbreakable.

But now, there's an invisible chasm that separates them. They barely acknowledge each other, let alone converse. It's as if a curtain has fallen between two characters in my story, and I, the author, have missed the critical plot twist that caused this separation. I never realized how deeply entangled they were in their own narratives, how their stories intersected with mine.

The irony isn't lost on me. Here I am, grappling with my own emotional tempest, yet I failed to notice the brewing storm in my best friend's life. It's a stark reminder of how self-absorbed grief can make you, blinding you to the suffering of those you love.

Glancing at Raj, I try to discern any clues from his demeanor, but he's an expert at masking his emotions. His gaze is fixed on the desk in front of him, and his movements are deliberate, almost mechanical. There's a hollowness in his eyes that I haven't seen before. The pain he's carrying is etched in every line of his face.

The silence between us becomes stifling as we wait for the teacher to arrive. My heart aches for Raj, and I want to reach out, to ask him what went wrong, to offer my support. But words fail me. Dev's name hasn't crossed our lips in weeks, and it feels like a fragile thread that neither of us wants to tug, for fear it might unravel everything.

Akash, the guy seated in front of us, pivots in his chair, a zealous zeal for zoology gleaming in his eyes. "Hey, Raj," he begins, textbook in hand, "I'm a bit stuck on these concepts from the last class. Mind helping me out?"

Raj, always the embodiment of scholarly wisdom, takes a deep breath and begins explaining the intricacies of the subject. He unravels the mysteries of zoology with the grace of a seasoned teacher, his words flowing effortlessly, unraveling the complexities with each sentence. I used to be a part of this exchange, effortlessly holding my own in academic discussions, but now I'm a spectator to their intellectual camaraderie.

I open my own set of notes, attempting to follow Raj's lead and study, my eyes scanning the pages that were once filled with knowledge and scribbled diagrams. But what I find is a jumble of mess. Incomplete sentences, missing passages, and annotations that make no sense. It's a reflection of the times I've drifted away in class, lost in thoughts that had nothing to do with zoology. My gaze lingers on the countless blank spaces where my attention waned, absorbed in the storm that rages within me.

I run my fingers through my hair in frustration, feeling like a pale shadow of the Arya who used to be at the forefront of every classroom discussion. I wasn't the smartest one but I definitely never struggled in the studies. Now, my notes mirror the chaos of my own mind, a disarray of emotions and thoughts that refuse to be tamed.

As Raj and Akash continue their academic discourse, I fight to regain my focus, to reclaim a fragment of the student I once was. But the notes in front of me serve as a stark reminder of the stark contrast between then and now. Grief has changed me, and I struggle to navigate this new landscape, where even the simplest of tasks become herculean challenges.

The teacher finally enters the room, breaking the silence with her brisk steps and a cheerful "Good morning, class!" The daily routine unfolds, and we're swept into the whirlwind of lectures, assignments, and the relentless ticking of the classroom clock.
...

The canteen is its usual bustling self, a chaotic symphony of laughter, chatter, and the clatter of trays. Raj, Mayank, and I are huddled around a corner table, half-eaten sandwiches before us. My gaze flits between the lively scene and the uneaten portion of my sandwich. It's hard to muster an appetite these days.

Mayank raises an eyebrow at his sandwich and says with a comical frown, "Honestly, I'm convinced the canteen staff is conducting a secret experiment to see how long we can endure these sandwiches."

We all chuckle, and Raj, in his usual witty fashion, retorts, "Mayank, you're the one who orders them every day. It's a self-inflicted culinary punishment."

Mayank deadpans, his expression a mask of exaggerated solemnity, "Well, you see, this is the best thing they could make in the history of our canteen sandwiches. It's like they've perfected the art of imperfection."

I pick at my sandwich, the taste a mere formality, my mind occupied with my surroundings. Mayank, ever the observant one, leans in and lowers his voice, his eyes gesturing towards the far corner table. "Is it true, Raj? Dev's going to represent our school in Teen Talents this year."

Raj's expression shifts, a subtle cloud passing over his face. His usually cheerful expression is now replaced by a distant look, and he simply nods without saying a word.

Now, as I glance at the far corner table, I see Aman and Dev. They've become inseparable, like magnets drawn to each other. Aman had once been part of our close-knit group, always the quiet, kind-hearted friend who rarely spoke but radiated warmth. He didn't have many friends, but he didn't need them - he had us.

Then something changed, something I could never fully comprehend. Aman, seemingly out of the blue, began to distance himself from Raj. Slowly but surely, he developed an unexplained resentment toward him, leading to a stark divide among us. Aman went from being part of our lives to a lone wolf, as though he had vanished into the shadows.

It's striking to see how Dev and Aman have become inseparable.. Two individuals who had drifted away from Raj have now found an unexpected tie with each other.

Mayank chews his sandwich, his face contorting into a expression of mild disgust. "So, Raj," he begins, his words punctuated by the need for a sip of water, "are you going to be Dev's mentor for this competition?"

Raj simply nods, his gaze distant as he takes a slow sip of water. It's a noticeable change in his usual calm self, and the uneasiness is palpable.

Seeing Raj's discomfort, I decide to interject, "Mayank, why are you so interested in Raj's mentorship? Are you secretly hoping he'll teach you how to sing like a nightingale?"

Mayank raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, Arya, if Raj could teach me to sing, I'd become the next music sensation overnight!"

We all share a laugh, but the underlying tension remains. Mayank, still curious, tries to dig deeper, "But seriously, Raj, what exactly does a mentor do in this context? I mean, you can't sing, and Dev's already taking music lessons from that tutor guy, right?"

Raj's discomfort is now more evident, and he hesitates for a moment. I sense his uneasiness and decide to step in, my voice now laced with empathy.

"Well," I begin, "you see, Raj, being the school prefect, he will help Dev with all the competition logistics and rules, making sure he's well-prepared for the technical aspects of the contest. He will also guide Dev on managing his time effectively, from practice schedules to balancing schoolwork. Plus, Raj can introduce Dev to other students with relevant experience, which is great for support. And lastly, he's got experience in public speaking and stage presence, so he will help Dev with that too."

Raj nods, but the pain in his eyes doesn't fade entirely. I can't help but feel a heavy silence, the unspoken pain that hovers between those two. This mentorship might be a way for Raj to stay close, to offer support while keeping a safe distance, a way to mend what had once been a deep connection between them, now marred by unspoken words.

As the last class of the day ends, I gather my belongings and glance at Raj, who's in a hurry to leave. He's stuffing his books into his backpack, breathing heavily, his eyes reflecting an urgency that's hard to miss.

"Arya, let's go," he says, his words laced with urgency.

I glance at him, confusion furrowing my brow. "Go where?" I inquire.

Raj doesn't waste a moment with explanations. Instead, he grabs his own backpack and strides purposefully towards the backdoor of the classroom. His body language is a whirlwind of anxious energy, and I'm compelled to follow him, my steps quickening to match his.

"But Raj," I insist, trying to piece together his unusual behavior, "Aren't you supposed to meet Dev today for your mentorship thing?"

Raj remains silent, his determination unwavering as he continues his brisk pace towards the exit. I catch up to him, falling into step beside him, our footsteps echoing in the corridor. It's clear he doesn't want to discuss the mentorship at all.

We emerge from the classroom and into the school's bustling hallway. Students chatter and shuffle about, the end-of-day chaos in full swing. Raj's haste is unusual, and I can't help but notice that the school day seems to have left him more frazzled than usual.

We reach the main gate, and I find myself compelled to ask again, my voice tinged with concern, "Raj, what's going on?"

In a sudden outburst of frustration, Raj slams his backpack against the gate, his knuckles turning white as he clutches the straps. His normally calm demeanor has been replaced by a storm of emotions, and it's clear he's struggling to contain them.

I cautiously approach him, my hand extending to rest on his shoulder. The moment I make contact, I see it in his eyes - the shimmer of tears, the vulnerability he's trying to hide. It's a side of Raj I rarely witness.

"What's wrong, Raj?" I inquire softly, my voice filled with empathy.

Raj's voice quivers, a fragile reflection of the turmoil within. Each word he utters carries the heavy burden of his emotions. "Arya," he whispers, his voice barely reaching the air, as if he fears the very act of speaking. "I can't do it. I can't bear to see him, to hear his voice. I can't bring myself to do to it... I just can't."