The snow stopped overnight.
That was the first thing I noticed.
The ground outside the school was wet and dark, footprints half-erased, like winter had decided it had said enough. The air was still cold, but sharper now—less forgiving.
Winter assembly was announced that morning.
Everyone stood in lines on the field, hands tucked into pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. Breath rose in small white clouds and disappeared just as quickly.
Ruhan stood beside me.
Not touching.Not distant.
Just there.
A teacher walked past our row, clipboard in hand. She slowed when she reached us. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to notice.
Her eyes lingered on Ruhan.
"You," she said, not unkindly. "Name?"
"Ruhan," he replied.
She nodded slowly. "Class?"
"Eleven."
She made a note on her paper.
Then, casually—too casually—"You're Mr. Verma's son, right?"
The air shifted.
I felt it immediately—the tightening, the attention sharpening even though no one openly turned to look.
"Yes, ma'am," Ruhan said.
There was no hesitation in his voice. No apology either.
She studied him for a second longer than necessary. Then she said, "You should focus on keeping a clean record. People notice these things."
It wasn't an accusation.
But it wasn't neutral either.
"Yes, ma'am," he said again.
She moved on.
The assembly continued—announcements, instructions, things that didn't matter. But something had already been said.
When we were dismissed, whispers followed us like shadows.
"That teacher—wasn't she the one?""His dad, right?""Careful."
Ruhan didn't react. He never did.
That was the part that hurt.
Near the water cooler, one of the boys laughed softly and said, "Must run in the family."
I stopped.
Ruhan didn't.
I turned back.
"You shouldn't say that," I said quietly.
The boy smirked. "Why? Truth hurts?"
I met his eyes. Calm. Steady.
"You don't know the truth," I said. "You just repeat things that make you feel important."
His smile faltered.
I didn't wait for a reply.
When I caught up to Ruhan, he looked at me—not surprised. Just thoughtful.
"You didn't have to," he said.
"I know," I replied. "I wanted to."
We walked in silence after that.
The snow was gone now, but the cold hadn't lifted. It clung to everything—metal railings, classroom floors, words people didn't take back.
In class, Ruhan sat beside me like he always did.
Same seat.Same space.
Someone passed a note two rows ahead. It didn't reach us. Someone else glanced back, then looked away.
The teacher started writing on the board.
Ordinary things.
After school, as we stepped outside, Ruhan spoke again.
"When the snow falls," he said, "everything feels quieter. Safer."
"And when it stops?" I asked.
He looked ahead. "That's when people start talking again."
I thought about the assembly. The teacher's pause. The laughter.
"I won't be quiet," I said.
He glanced at me then.
"I don't want you fighting my battles," he said.
"I'm not," I replied. "I'm choosing my side."
That stayed with him.
I could tell by the way his shoulders relaxed just a little.
We walked home together, the road wet but clear, no snow left to soften anything.
And I realized something important:
Winter hadn't ended.
It had just changed its shape.
The cold was still there—but now, it was honest.
And so were we.
🤍 Written by Pragati Priya (pen name: Zoey)
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