It was my first week as a teacher at a high school in the misty tea-plantation town of Mattupetti. My colleagues and I were going around the classroom, introducing ourselves to the new batch of tenth-grade students, calling out names, and chatting about their interests. That was when I first noticed her.
She was sitting by the window in the back row, gazing absently at the passing clouds outside. The moment I saw her face, my heart plummeted.
A cold shiver ran down my spine. It was her—Anagha. The very same girl who had vanished mysteriously from my life five years ago when I was still in college—the girl I had long assumed was dead. It felt like a scene straight out of a movie: someone I believed had ceased to exist was standing right in front of me, calm and alive.
The moment our eyes met, I saw the shock register on her face. Her composure shattered, replaced instantly by a mix of distress and resentment. Before I could even ask a question, tears welled up in her eyes. She grabbed her bag and ran out of the classroom.
Neither of us really knew much about each other's personal lives, yet after five years, recognition was instantaneous. Over the following weeks, I tried reaching out to her multiple times, but she avoided me completely. Whenever she saw me approaching, she would turn and run.
Finally, one evening, I managed to corner her near the pine trees at the edge of the school grounds. Tearfully, she confessed everything. She explained that her past confession of love had been nothing more than teenage foolishness and impulsivity, and that family troubles had forced her to flee overnight without telling anyone.
"I am so sorry, but I can't bear to look back at those days," she sobbed sincerely. Seeing her distress, I didn't have the heart to press her further. I let her go.
Even after that, she refused to offer me even a basic friendship. The girl who used to smile so warmly years ago was gone. In her place was someone cold and indifferent, with eyes as icy as the winter mist.
Time moved on, and on the night after her final exams ended, tragedy struck. The jeep carrying a few students back home skidded on a sharp bend and plunged into a ravine. She did not survive the crash.
A few days later, I stood alone beside her grave in the yard of an old mountain church.
"You couldn't stand being anywhere near me," I murmured, staring at the headstone. "And now, here I am... right beside you. I never wanted revenge; all I ever wanted was to be your friend."
I knelt, brushed my hand against the cold stone, and whispered softly:
"I never really knew who you were back then... and I guess I never will now."
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