Page 46 of Scars and Crowns

I nod. Unable to trust my voice anymore.

He keeps looking at me for another heartbeat.

Then—"Mister!" Sara's delighted shout fills the room. "Come quickly!" She points proudly toward the bed. "I organised all my pencils!"

We both turn. Twelve coloured pencils lie arranged in perfect rainbow order. She waits expectantly. Hands on hips. Waiting for approval. Yuvaan walks over with complete seriousness. He crouches beside the display like he's inspecting priceless artwork.

"Hmm." He studies it carefully. "I think . . . " A thoughtful pause. "This deserves full marks." Sara gasps in delight before throwing herself at him in celebration. I watch them from where I'm sitting.

A smile finds me without permission.

Friends.

It feels impossibly small. Too small for shared breakfasts. Too small for remembered tea. Too small for school bags, daisies, whispered nicknames, and the quiet certainty that neither of us has ever truly belonged anywhere except beside the other.

I only wish I knew whether he felt that same smallness . . . Or whether, for him . . . Friends was still enough.

FIRST DAY

ANAMIKA

I've fixed Sara's school uniform three times already. Not because it needs fixing. It doesn't. The tiny pleats are perfectly in place, the shirt is neatly ironed, and I've already checked twice to make sure every button is fastened properly.

Still, I smooth invisible creases from the fabric with my palms, unfold it, and fold it all over again. My hands need something to do. Otherwise they'll betray how nervous I actually am.

It's ridiculous, really.

This isn't Sara's first first day. There was the tiny anganwadi we enrolled her in after moving to Mumbai. The little crèche tucked between two apartment buildings where I used to leave her while working double shifts.

I've done this before. I've survived this before. So why does today feel different?

Maybe because this isn't temporary. Maybe because this school feels . . . real.

When we finally stop outside the gates, I find myself staring at the old stone signboard mounted beside them. Its faded letters have probably welcomed generations of children long before Sara was born.

Parents must have stood exactly where I'm standing now, worrying over children who eventually grew up and walked through these gates without looking back. The thought makes my chest unexpectedly tight.

Yuvaan insisted on coming with us this morning.

I almost argued. Old habits die slowly.

For years every school admission, every doctor's appointment, every parent meeting had been mine alone. There had never been anyone beside me to share those ordinary responsibilities. A part of me still automatically assumes there won't be.

Thankfully . . . he ignored that part of me.

Now he walks beside us toward the school entrance with Sara's tiny hand tucked comfortably inside his much larger one. I trail half a step behind, quietly watching them. The sight still feels new enough to steal my breath.

The Maharaja of Devgarh has unconsciously slowed his stride to match the pace of a five-year-old. Sara is explaining something very important about her brand-new shoes.

Apparently they squeak. She isn't sure whether that's a manufacturing defect or an exciting feature. Yuvaan listens with complete seriousness, nodding thoughtfully as though she's presenting him with an engineering problem that deserves immediate attention.

I smile before I even realise I'm doing it. Just before we reach the school gate, he stops walking. "Come here, Princess."

Sara immediately lets go of his hand. "What?"

Instead of answering, he slips one hand into the pocket of his jacket. When he brings it back out . . . A single rose rests between his fingers.

Fresh.