Then, just like that, it was over.
No more school bells marking time, slicing their days into fixed routines. No more scribbled notes passed during boring lectures. No more "let's go to the canteen" whispers that led to shared laughter over greasy snacks.
Just... silence.
A silence that didn't feel peaceful—it felt heavy, like the end of something sacred.
The board exams were finally over. The storm they had feared for months had passed. And yet, instead of relief, Zia felt suspended—like she was standing on a quiet platform after the last train had left.
Now, all that remained were results and choices. Choices that would shape the rest of their lives. Or so the adults said.
Different schools. Different people. Different futures. A clean slate—but one that felt far too blank.
He got into a boys' school—strict, prestigious, with rules that stretched on like a scroll. Everyone around her called it a golden opportunity, the kind of place that opened doors and polished dreams.
But for Zia, it didn't feel golden. It felt gray. It felt like a door had quietly closed—and she wasn't on the other side.
Something important had been taken, softly, silently—without a goodbye.
She and Ruqayyah had stuck to their plan. The same school again. It made sense. They'd always talked about it—continuing together, keeping one constant in a world full of change. And it wasn't just about comfort. It was love, deep and unspoken. The kind of bond that didn't need proving.
Ruqayyah was her person.
Her safe place.
Her echo.
But even that comfort couldn't fill the gap he left behind.
ZARS—Zia, Ayesha, Ruqayyah, Suraiya—used to be inseparable. A whirlwind of energy and chaos and joy.
Now, they were scattered.
The board exams hadn't gone as well for Ayesha and Suraiya.
Marks don't always reflect effort, but they do decide futures. And unfortunately, those marks had drawn an invisible line between them.
Ayesha was forced to transfer to a school closer to home, one that could offer her remedial help and a second chance. Suraiya's parents enrolled her in a vocational stream, convinced that academics weren't her path.
None of it felt fair. One moment, they were four girls planning forever. The next, they were names in different registers, scattered across the city.
And just like that, ZARS split into two halves.
Zia and Ruqayyah—still side by side, still holding on.
They had been adamant from the start: We'll go to the same school. We'll stay together. No matter what.
It wasn't just a plan; it was a promise.
A promise that had survived late-night overthinking, parental pressure, and entrance exam chaos.
Some bonds weren't made to be tested—they were made to be trusted.
Zia and Ruqayyah were that kind of bond.
But even as they walked into a new school building, side by side like always, their hearts carried the weight of two missing pieces.
The lunch table looked too big now. The conversations had pauses Ayesha used to fill. The jokes didn't quite land without Suraiya's loud laughter echoing after them.
Even the silences had changed.
The hallways they once ran through felt emptier. The benches where they used to sit were just wooden seats now—no longer filled with energy and inside jokes, but with echoes.
Zia felt the difference in her bones. It wasn't a loud kind of pain. It was quiet. Lingering. The ache of something missing that you can't quite name.
They still messaged sometimes. The group chat wasn't dead, just... quieter. Like a house that hadn't been lived in for a while.
But text couldn't capture the way he used to look at her during class. Or the half-smile he gave when he knew she was annoyed.
It couldn't bring back the way her heart raced from just a glance — when their eyes met across the room and, for a moment, everything else faded. No words, no touch — just that silent connection that made her forget to breathe.
His voice—gone. His presence—gone. That flutter she used to feel just from sitting across from him—gone.
And with him gone, a part of herself had faded too. The version of her that bloomed in his presence, that sparkled under his gaze—she wasn't here anymore.
She missed him.
She missed Ayesha's sass, Suraiya's laughter, the way their group had fit together like puzzle pieces. But most of all, she missed herself. The girl who believed in forever friendships and quiet crushes that meant everything.
Ruqayyah stayed by her side, solid and fierce, her friendship as bright as ever. If anything, they'd grown closer. But grief is strange. It doesn't need to be about death. It can be about distance, change, silence.
Zia scrolled through her gallery one evening. Selfies from their last day of school. Classroom shots. Canteen chaos. Meme screenshots with inside jokes she barely remembered now.
Each image hit like a wave.
They had frozen moments, unaware that they were becoming memories.
Zia realized something then—growing up doesn't happen in a single moment. It's not when you turn a certain age or pass an exam. It creeps in slowly.
It arrives when routines end. When laughter doesn't sound the same. When you start missing people who are technically still around.
It reshapes you. Quietly. Irreversibly.
But maybe it wasn't all bad.
Because even though people leave, something stays. The way they made you feel. The way they helped you grow. The way they lived in the little corners of your life—songs, smells, inside jokes.
Maybe new memories would come. New friendships. New "firsts." Maybe someone else would sit beside her one day, and she'd feel that same nervous flutter, and it would feel... right.
But she would carry the old ones with her too. Not as weight, but as warmth. Not as sadness, but as proof that love—even young, soft, uncertain love—had once existed.
Their laughter would live on in her favorite playlists. Their voices would echo in her head when she needed courage. Their love, however brief, would be stitched into the fabric of her being.
In the end, it wasn't just about letting go. It was about choosing what to hold on to.
And Zia knew, without doubt— She would hold on to all of it.