The June That United Us

SCHOOL STARTS

The walls hadn’t changed. But everyone within them had.*

There was so much noise in the halls, it felt almost unreal. Locker doors clunked, students shouted greetings, and laughter rang like it hadn’t been long since the last June.

Zoya stood on the edge of the school gate and watched the intermingled provisionals of students getting into the building next to her.

Her mother said something about "new beginnings" that morning, but it just didn’t feel fresh to her. It felt like trying to walk on a bruise that was still healing. Each step brought an awareness of the tenderness.

She fidgeted with the strap on her bag, inhaled a deep breath, and stepped in.

The classroom reeked of cheap disinfectant and new notebooks. Someone had written *"Aaryan ❤️ Divya"* in permanent marker across the back row. The ceiling fan creaked above, sounding already tired of the new academic year. Also, there was a spelling mistake in a poster hanging by the whiteboard.

Zoya chose a seat by the window, two rows from the back. Close enough to disappear.

Aarav entered the room five minutes later. He didn't look at anyone. He choose a seat two rows diagonally from her. Just far enough that their eyes never met.

They didn't know each other's names yet. But grief is funny like that, it always recognizes its counterpart.

Maya Kapoor walked into the classroom first, bouncing out of her seat with an enthusiasm that the classroom had clearly not earned yet. Gold hoops. Lavender eyeliner. Phone in hand.

"Oh my God, we're seniors now," she said, flinging herself into a seat beside Simran.

Simran Sharma, perpetual calm in the chaos of society, raised her eyebrow. "We're in class eleven, not the Met Gala."

"You say that, but look at Kabir," Maya pointed.

Kabir Singh walked in next, a lazy smile stretched across his face, headphones slung behind his neck. "Miss me?" he asked no one in particular.

Simran rolled her eyes. "We *saw* you yesterday, idiot."

Then came Rohan Bhatia--six feet of chaos wrapped in sneakers and sarcasm.

"Guess who got a new principal this year?" he shouted out, like it was the morning news. "He's bald. That's when you know he's serious."

The g**g laughed.

Aarav noticed them, of course. Everyone did. They were not bullies. Not really. But they took up space in the school like it owed them.

Zoya looked up to see what Maya had laughed at, if only briefly. Then looked back down.

She wasn't here for friends. Not anymore.

"Class, settle down," Ms. Fernandes said, as she walked in, weighted down with a bunch of files in one hand, and a large flask of coffee in the other.

She was the kind of teacher that still wore sarees, and meant every word that she said. Kind, but sharp. You would never get away with lying to her (not that you would want to).

"We have a few new students, and a few returning comfy faces I would hope have decided on better attendance this year," she said, glancing directly at Rohan, who winked back at her.

"Okay roll call!" she called out, and the usual predictability of the class chorus of "present ma'ams" began.

"Aarav Malhotra?"

"Here," Aarav replied, his voice quiet, but steady.

Zoya's eyes flickered.

"Zoya Ali?"

"Present," she whispered.

Aarav's eyes lifted, briefly, just long enough to catch the sound. But it landed somewhere. Familiar. He didn't know why.

Two seats behind Aarav, a boy named Sameer nudged his friend, and said too loudly, "Dude, isn't that the girl whose sister... y'know?"

"Yeah," the friend muttered. "June, right? Damn."

Zoya heard. Of course she did. Her back tightened. She didn't turn around, though.

Ms. Fernandes looked up abruptly. "If you're done sharing secrets like gossiping aunties at their week's kitty party, we'll begin."

The class laughed, and Zoya didn't smile.

Aarav turned to look at that same girl again. He could see the tension in her shoulders, across the room. He didn't know her. But the silence, and the familiarity of it, sat too close to home.

Their first class that day was English Literature. A new teacher: Mr. D'Souza, who looked entirely too cheerful for 8:30 AM.

"Welcome back, everyone! We're opening with poetry this term!" he said, cheerfully. "You can't beat some rhythm and metaphors to wake your brains up!"

Aarav sank slightly into his chair.

Zoya, against her will, tilted her head.

“Who here has written poetry before?” he asked.

Zero hands went up.

Zero. Not even Zoya’s.

Mr D’Souza laughed “Okay. No worries. By the end of this term I’ll have half of you writing heartbreak poetry and the other half will be readers that appreciate it.”

“Sir, do we have to do poetry?” called out Rohan.

“Yes, hell yes, your whole life is already a drama Rohan” said Mr D’Souza and the class laughed again.

Two students however were not laughing.

One was staring at the blank corner of her notebook with a pen that did not have any movement.

The other was tracing the edge of his desk and pretending he was not thinking of his dead best friend.

By lunchtime the groups had already formed like sediment, with old friends coming back together and new students orbiting quietly in the background.

Zoya walked to the garden with her notebook and didn’t make eye contact with anybody.

Aarav remained in the corridor, leaning against a pillar, with his earbuds in but with the music off. He didn’t want the noise. He wanted silence that was loud enough to drown out memories.

At the very back of the classroom, Maya was whispering to Simran, “Who's the new girl?”

“Zoya. Pretty quiet girl. But pretty,” said Simran.

Rohan took a bite of his sandwich, "It's trauma energy."

"Shut up," snapped Simran. "She's literally been through stuff."

Maya nodded thoughtfully. "I really like her vibe."

Kabir shrugged, "Let her be, na. We'll talk when she talks first."

"Same with the new guy?" Maya asked.

"Aarav?" Kabir said, "Yeah, he seems like the brooding type."

"They'd probably get along," Maya smirked.

Simran had looked at them both--the girl in the garden, the boy by the pillar--and said, "Or maybe they already do. Without knowing it."

The bell rang again. The second half of the day began.

Zoya and Aarav passed each other at the door.

Neither spoke.

But Zoya felt the shift. A glance. A second too long.

And Aarav...

He didn't believe in fate. Not really.

But for the first time in weeks, he wondered if someone like him

was getting written into someone else's poem.