Love Before Graduation

I walked towards her, slowly. My feet felt like they were stepping through the streets of a dead city. Cold floor, silent night—and there she was—Suhina.

"Suhina?" I called. There was a bit of nervousness in my voice, and a bit of hope too. But she said nothing. She stood there like life had forgotten her. Or like she had forgotten life.

Silent. Stone-like. Not a woman, but a statue of sorrow.

I wondered to myself—was it really her? Or some illusion born from death's leisure?

"Nonsense," I shook myself, "Ghosts don't exist. And even if they do, they don't drink tea."

Still, there was a strange unease in my heart. Like a wound hurting without being touched.

This time I spoke a bit louder, "Hey! What are you doing here?"

She trembled this time. As if someone had shaken her out of a deep sleep. Her eyes met mine, but there was no life in them. Only a question—deep and hollow.

"Why... why am I here?" she asked. Her voice sounded like a spirit had borrowed her body.

I blinked. Was that a question or a scream?

"How would I know," I said, "I came here to ask the same."

She said nothing. Just began to cry.

But it wasn't the kind of crying that rests its head in someone's lap. It was the kind of weeping that bursts out from a dark well. That tears a person apart from the inside.

"What happened, Suhina? Tell me," I said. I moved my shoulder forward, but my hand froze. I didn't know whether to hold her or walk away.

But she made the decision herself.

She came and clung to me. As if I were the last thing left in a world that was falling apart. She trembled, shivered.

"Aira... I'm scared... so much."

In that moment, all the fights, all the betrayals—they faded. That moment belonged only to her—a broken person.

I held her in my arms, without thinking. No hatred, no calculation.

She was still the same girl who shared her lunchbox with me. And in that moment, she wasn't an 'enemy'—just a girl falling apart.

She turned her face away while crying, wiped her tears, trying to hide herself out of shame.

"Sorry..." she said.

"It's okay," I replied.

I nodded toward the park nearby. There was that swing—old, rusted, but still willing to carry someone's weight.

She hesitated for a moment, then slowly nodded.

We sat.

The night was silent. As if it were listening. Even the wind had paused.

I said, "Speak."

She stayed quiet for a while. Held the swing's chain tightly. Maybe she was holding onto trust.

"You won't believe me," she said.

"Try me," I replied