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"The Last Bench"

Ashfaq Ahmed
TRUE STORY
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Submitted to Contest #4 in response to the prompt: 'You break the one unbreakable rule. What happens next? '



Part 1: The Quiet Boy

It was always the last bench.

Every morning, the same routine. The bell would ring, students would rush in—laughing, shouting, greeting friends—and there he’d be, quietly slipping in, head down, bag clutched tightly against his chest, moving toward the last bench near the window. No one fought for that seat. No one even noticed when he entered. To most, he was invisible. Just another face in the crowd, just another boy in a school full of louder, brighter ones.

His name was Aarav.

Aarav was 15. He had thin shoulders, big eyes, and that kind of silence around him that made people uncomfortable. His uniform was always clean but faded, shoes polished though old, and his lunch was always wrapped in yesterday's newspaper. He rarely spoke unless spoken to. Teachers said he was "decent but needs to open up." Students didn’t say much at all.

Until one day, the new girl did.

Her name was Aanya.

Aanya was everything he wasn’t. Confident, talkative, kind without being forced. She had transferred mid-year from another city and sat on the bench in front of him. On her first day, she turned around and smiled at him.

“Hi. I’m Aanya,” she whispered while the teacher was writing something on the board.

He blinked.

“I said, I’m Aanya. What’s your name?”

“Aarav,” he mumbled.

“Nice to meet you, Aarav.”

No one had said that to him in years.

And that was the beginning.

Part 2: Slowly, the Walls Fell

In the weeks that followed, Aanya kept talking to him. Just little things—asking for a pen, borrowing a ruler, asking if he’d studied for the test. Aarav always gave short replies. But slowly, something began to shift.

One afternoon, Aanya turned around and offered him half of her sandwich. “My mom packed too much,” she smiled.

He hesitated, then took it with both hands, whispering “Thank you.”

No one had shared lunch with him since third grade.

The next day, he brought an extra paratha. It was cold by the time lunch came, but he offered it anyway.

She took it with a grin. “Deal.”

They became... something. Not exactly friends—at least, that’s not how Aarav understood it—but she made him feel like he existed. Like he wasn’t just air between desks.

One rainy afternoon, while everyone else was shouting and throwing paper planes, she whispered, “Why don’t you talk to others?”

He looked at her, then away. “They don’t talk to me.”

She was quiet for a second. Then, gently, she asked, “Do you want to tell me why?”

And Aarav told her.

About his father, who died when he was seven. About his mother, who worked two jobs. About how they had to move often because rent was too high. About how kids laughed when he brought roti-sugar for lunch. About how one day in fifth grade, a group of boys locked him in a bathroom during recess and he sat there crying, waiting for a teacher to find him. And how after that, he stopped trying.

Aanya’s eyes were wet by the time he finished.

She didn’t say anything grand. She just nodded, reached over, and squeezed his hand.

That day, when he went home, he looked in the mirror longer than usual. For the first time, he didn’t feel like a shadow.

Part 3: A Change in the Air
After that day, something shifted.

Aarav smiled more. Not the full-teeth kind, but the small, warm smile that says, “I’m trying.” He started answering questions in class—still quietly, still with hesitation—but the teachers noticed. Some classmates even began nodding at him during morning assembly. That was new.

He still sat on the last bench. But now, it wasn’t lonely.

Aanya would turn around during breaks, sometimes sitting with him during lunch. They’d talk about everything and nothing—favorite subjects, what they wanted to be, memories from when they were kids. Aanya said she wanted to become a psychologist and help children who didn’t speak much.

Aarav chuckled. “Like me?”

She smiled. “No. Not like you. You speak more than most now. You just needed someone to listen.”

He didn’t know how to say it, but in his heart, he had already started depending on her. She was... safe. He hadn’t had “safe” in a long, long time.

Then one day, just like the seasons change without permission, something else changed too.

Aanya didn’t come to school.

At first, Aarav thought she was sick. Then a day became three. Three became a week.

No messages. No goodbyes.

He waited. Every day, sitting on that last bench, watching the door, hoping she’d walk in with her usual smile and say, “Miss me?”

She didn’t.

The teacher finally announced it on Monday morning.

“Aanya had to leave the city due to a family emergency. She won’t be coming back this term. Or possibly this school.”

That sentence crushed something inside Aarav.

He felt the old silence crawl back in. But this time, it was colder.

Part 4: Letters Never Sent
Weeks passed.

Aarav stopped talking much again, but he didn’t become invisible. Something of Aanya remained—like a thread she left behind, tied around his heart.

One evening, he sat by the small window of his room, staring at the setting sun and holding a blank notebook. It had been hers—a gift she gave him on his birthday.

“You should write,” she had said. “You think deeply. Don’t let those thoughts stay trapped.”

And so, he wrote.

He wrote a letter. Not to send. Just to say what he couldn’t say when she left.

"Dear Aanya,

You left without goodbye. But it’s okay. I understand. Life never asks for permission when it changes.

I just wanted to tell you... thank you. You saw me when no one else did. You sat with me when the bench felt like a punishment. You asked how I was and waited for the answer. You shared food, time, and silence. That meant more than you’ll ever know.

Since you left, I look at your bench more than I should. Hoping it will fill itself. But it doesn’t.

Sometimes, I still hear your voice in class. Sometimes I pretend you’re sitting behind me, asking if I have an extra pen. I say yes. Always yes.

I hope wherever you are, you’re okay. And I hope one day, we meet again—not as shadows of who we were, but as people who kept their promises.

Yours quietly,
Aarav."

He never sent the letter. He folded it, placed it between the pages of the notebook, and tucked it away.

But writing it… made him breathe a little easier.

The next morning, he sat on the last bench again. Alone. But not empty.

Because love isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s a shared sandwich, a silent goodbye, and a notebook that carries the pieces of someone who changed you forever.


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Ashfaq, your story is a deeply moving and tender portrayal of quiet connection and subtle transformation - I gave it a full 50 points. If you get a moment, I’d be grateful if you could read my story, “The Room Without Windows.” I’d love to hear what you think: https://notionpress.com/write_contest/details/5371/the-room-without-windows

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