Dehradun — a city cradled in the lush Doon Valley, known for its eternal spring, misty mornings, and elite institutions that didn’t just build careers, but crafted legends.
Among them stood The Royal Eden High School — not just a school, but an empire of ambition.
A place where the privileged thrived, and the underprivileged watched from a distance.
Tonight, its batch of 2017 had returned. Not as students. As stories.
The reunion was in full swing.
Crystal glasses clinked. Air-kisses floated. Everyone looked more successful than they truly were.
Friends who once fought over bench space now exchanged polite smiles like diplomats at an international summit.
“Cheers!” someone announced loudly.
If you looked closely, the man holding the glass was Moksh Kaushik, now a primetime journalist.
“Nayel ka kya scene hai?” asked a retired Army General.
“Saw him at the golf club last Friday,” said another, “Asked if he was coming.”
“Aur?” Dr. Dayaal leaned in.
“Taal gaya.”
“Typical Nayel,” they all muttered in sync.
And then…
A man in an ash-grey suit walked in.
No announcement. No applause.
But the room stilled like someone had pressed pause.
He walked like he owned the place. Because once—he kind of did.
Nayel Durrani.
Sharp, successful, and terrifyingly unreadable.
While others wore their success loudly, he wore his like perfume—subtle, expensive, and unforgettable.
The murmurs shifted tone.
“That’s him… Durrani Corp.”
“Didn’t Moksh’s channel try to take him down last month?”The tension was thick. And Moksh? He laughed nervously.
“We just ask questions. It’s our job.”
Nayel smiled coldly.
“And I answer with numbers. Mine usually shut people up.”
Then, with the precision of a scalpel:
“You should try running forward sometime. Makes journalism feel less… jealous.”Ouch.
Moksh’s smirk wavered.
But before anyone could stir the tension further—
“Remember when you played music on the loudspeaker behind the building just to disturb Mrs. Khan’s class?” Neha laughed, trying to change the subject.Everyone chuckled.
“Why’d you do it though?” asked Sam.
Nayel looked down at his drink, a flicker of old mischief returning.
“Manal was singing in class that day. Mrs. Khan scolded her. Three-day suspension. It was revenge.”
“Of course,” Neha teased. “Anything for her.”And then—
Silence.
Everything came flooding back.
The whispered bond.
The scandal.
The slap.
The silence that followed.
No one dared speak the names together—
Nayel and Manal.
Until the sound of heels on marble shattered the air.
Heads turned.
There she was.
Manal Shah.
White satin saree. Hair in a loose bun. Grace blooming from every step.
Poised. Polished. Unbothered.
Born of legacy. Raised like royalty.
She walked in like she belonged — because she did.
Nayel saw her first. And his heart betrayed him once again.
Everything for her.
But he didn’t say it. He smiled instead. The cruel kind.
“Didn’t expect the Shahs to send a representative. No press coverage?”
“Surprising you is easier than I thought,” she replied calmly.
Their barbed exchange drew awkward laughter.
“Kaise ho, Nayel?” she asked later, with unsettling casualness.
“Good, Mrs. Shah,” he replied, a glass raised in mock respect.
“Not yet,” she replied smoothly, “but I’m glad you’re keeping track.”
Then, he turned to the group, voice sharper now:
“Let me save you the suspense. To Manal Shah—soon to be Mrs. Bassam Shah. Wedding in a week.”
The words fell like thunder.
Even the chandelier above seemed to hold its breath.
But Manal… smiled.
“You always liked announcing other people’s lives,” she said.
“And you,” he replied, “always let others decide yours.”
Another silence.
Then she walked away—regal as ever—blending back into the group like the storm hadn’t passed through her.
But Nayel?
He stood with his glass raised. Watching.
Still hearing the whisper from a bleeding corner of his heart—
Everything for her...But not anymore.
He was still staring when a group of his friends called out to him, snapping him out of his thoughts. Forcing himself to turn away, he made his way toward them, exchanging polite nods and greetings. Yet, his attention kept drifting back to her.
It was then he noticed something—a shift in her demeanor. She seemed...uncomfortable, almost as if she didn’t want to be there. Her body language was reserved, her movements restrained. For reasons he couldn’t fully explain, it gave him an odd sense of peace. At least she wasn’t indifferent. Indifference would have been unbearable.
But she wasn’t the same girl he remembered. She was quiet in a way that felt foreign. The spark that used to light up her face was missing. She wasn’t laughing at the jokes being cracked around her, not even at the ones she would have found hilarious before. She wasn’t pulling faces or rolling her eyes like she used to, her personality filling every room she entered. Instead, there was a plastered smile on her face, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Nayel’s chest tightened as he watched her, trying to reconcile this subdued version of her with the memory of the girl he had once known so intimately. She had always been sunshine—loud, unapologetic, full of life. Now, she looked like someone who had learned to hide behind a mask, someone who had forgotten how to feel freely.
He should have felt relieved, maybe even victorious, to see her like this—so unlike herself, so far from the person who had hurt him. But all he felt was an ache, deep and unrelenting, as if her sadness mirrored his own. For the first time in years, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to face her, not like this. And yet, he couldn’t look away.
As the audience settled into their seats, the lights dimmed, and the drama began—Romeo and Juliet. The actors brought the age-old tale to life with a passion that captivated everyone in the room. But for Nayel, the performance was little more than a backdrop to his thoughts. He glanced at her again, seated a few rows away, her posture stiff yet composed. The parallels between the play on stage and their own story struck him like a cruel joke. Forbidden love, betrayal, and an inevitable tragedy—it was as if Shakespeare himself had written their lives.
When the death scene unfolded, a hushed silence filled the hall. The anguish of the actors seemed to seep into the air, and Nayel’s gaze instinctively turned toward her. He saw it then—a tear slipping down her cheek. She quickly covered her face with her hand, as if trying to hide her vulnerability. But it was too late; he had seen everything.
Without thinking, Nayel got up and moved toward her, ignoring the curious glances of those around him. He reached her seat just as she tried to compose herself. Holding out a tissue, he said nothing, just waited. She hesitated before taking it, her fingers brushing against his. The brief contact sent a chill down his spine, a feeling so familiar yet so foreign after all these years. He saw her fingers tremble as she quickly withdrew, deliberately avoiding his eyes.
As she dabbed her face with the tissue, she seemed to regain her composure. He noticed her trying to toss it aside, and his hand shot out, catching it midair.
"When will you start using a dustbin?" he asked, his tone laced with sarcasm.
She finally looked at him, her eyes still glassy but now holding a spark of defiance. "When you start minding your own business," she replied, her voice sharper than the tissue had any right to be.
For a moment, they both froze. The air between them felt electric, charged with the weight of old memories. It was as if they had been transported back to a time when they were sixteen, trading banter in the hallways of their school. She smiled then—a teary, bittersweet smile that was as honest as it was heartbreaking.
That smile undid him. Before he could think twice, he brought the tissue to his lips, kissed it gently, and tucked it into his pocket.
Her eyes widened, stunned. For a moment, she looked like she might say something, but the words never came. Instead, she stared at him, as if trying to decipher the man he had become. He didn’t say anything either, but his gaze held hers, unspoken words passing between them.
The performance continued on stage, the actors delivering their lines with passion, but in that moment, the world around them faded. The drama wasn’t on the stage anymore—it was here, between them, raw and unresolved, demanding to be faced.
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