Still raining hard. When the last bell finally sounded, the school's front step looked like an ocean of open umbrellas. Dad hadn’t arrived yet - something that almost never happened - so I stood by the entrance, left behind with the leftover seventh graders.

"Hey, Dhanya."

Facing around, I saw him - Ajay. Beneath the slim roof of the bike shelter he stood, umbrella closed. His gaze met mine, steady as always, yet now edged with unease. For once, tension curled through his stillness.

"I’m leaving for the sports hostel next week," he said. "I won't be in the senior wing anymore."

Funny how silence can weigh so much. One whole year, Ajay stood quietly nearby, watching out without a sound, while I spoke to him only a handful of times. Huh. That’s - actually kind of huge, Ajay. Really. Good for you

"I don't care about the hostel," he stepped closer, the smell of rain and damp wool surrounding us. "I just wanted to know... if I write to you, will you write back? Or is your letter-box reserved for 10th-grade artists?"

A sudden sting hit his face - same as that question. Truth sat there, obvious. Sure, he got it. The whole school appeared to hold secrets about me I had never learned myself.

"Ajay, I can't receive letters at home. My father - "

"I know about your father," he interrupted, his voice surprisingly gentle. "I've seen him at the gate. He looks like he’s guarding a treasure. I’m not trying to steal it, Dhanya. I just want to be part of the map."

A moment passed. Then - water exploded nearby, cutting through the air. From the side path he slid, shoes slipping on wet stone, backpack clutched above him as if it might block the rain.

"Dhanya! Your dad’s car is turning the corner! Move, move, move!" Bharat shouted, completely ignoring Ajay.

Through the downpour, I hesitated. Eyes locked on mine - Ajay waited. My arm tugged hard - Bharat pulled toward the gate. Out of the fog, slow and heavy, came my father’s white Ambassador, cutting through like something hunting.

"I need to leave now!" I yelled, louder than the storm's roar.

Footsteps loud, I dashed for the vehicle, water leaping up from each step. Sliding into the rear, eyes met mine - Shwetha’s brows lifted so high they nearly vanished into her scalp. From the glass she’d watched it all unfold.

When Papa shifted the car into drive, she asked softly, “Just two boys this time?” A storm rolled in. That made it riskier. Her voice stayed low. Bravery felt different now

"Be quiet, Shwetha," I whispered, pulse pounding.

Outside, the view held still. By the shed stood Ajay, small under the dull sky. Jumping came Bharat, sound breaking through wet ground. Hidden deep in my pack - a flute left behind by someone no longer here.

That moment made it clear. Eighth grade would not revolve around picking teammates for a lab assignment. Instead, it meant deciding what kind of person to become. Would I remain sheltered beneath my father’s coat when storms came? Or step forward, soaked but smiling, moving with the downpour?