The day felt heavier because of the cold.
Winter had settled in fully now—quiet, unannounced. The sky stayed pale all afternoon, like it was tired of holding things in. By the time school ended, small snowflakes had started falling, slow and careless, melting the moment they touched the ground.
Ruhan walked beside me, pushing his cycle through the thin layer of slush.
No rush.No talking.
Just the sound of tyres crunching softly against snow.
At the gate, he stopped and looked at the sky once. Then at me.
"I'll drop you," he said.
It wasn't a question.
I climbed onto the cycle, pulling my shawl tighter. The metal seat was cold, biting through layers. As he started pedaling, the wind cut against my face, sharp and clean.
He rode slower than usual.
Careful.
Snowflakes settled on his hair, on the shoulders of his jacket. He didn't brush them off. Neither did I.
"They were talking again," he said suddenly, eyes fixed on the road.
I didn't pretend not to know.
"About your dad," I replied.
"Yes."
The word came out steady, practiced.
"They're not wrong," he continued. "The rumour's true."
The cycle didn't stop.
Snow fell thicker now, blurring the edges of the road.
"He had an affair with a teacher," Ruhan said. "From this school."
My hands tightened lightly around the back of his jacket.
"No one said anything back then," he added. "Not teachers. Not students. Silence felt safer than truth."
A car passed us, spraying cold water onto the side of the road. He shifted instinctively, placing himself between me and it.
"My mother stayed," he said. "Because leaving would've been louder than enduring."
The snow absorbed his words, making them feel softer—and heavier.
"That's why I used to sit alone," he said after a pause. "People don't look too closely when you keep your distance."
We turned into my lane. Familiar houses stood quiet, roofs dusted white. Footprints crisscrossed the ground like stories intersecting and disappearing.
"You're not your father," I said softly.
He didn't answer right away.
When he did, his voice was low. "I know. But sometimes the world forgets that before you do."
He stopped in front of my gate and put the stand down. Snow had gathered on the handles now, thin and white.
For a moment, we just stood there, breath visible in the cold.
"I don't want to disappear again," he said. "Not into silence."
I stepped down and faced him. Snowflakes landed in his lashes, melting instantly.
"Then don't," I said. "Stay."
He nodded once.
"I'll wait till you go inside," he said.
I unlocked the gate and turned back once.
He was still there—cycle steady, shoulders dusted with snow, eyes on the road.
Not proving anything. Not hiding.
Just staying.
And in the hush of falling snow, I realized:
Some winters don't freeze you.
Some winters teach you how to endure—and how to walk someone home without saying too much.
🤍 Written by Pragati Priya (pen name: Zoey)
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