Chapter 1: Enemies, Friends, Something In-Between

POORNIMA Rai and Veeresh Raishinghania had been classmates since the first day of school—and enemies since the first roll call.

Not the kind of enemies who hated each other in silence. No. They were loud about it. Obvious. Constant.

The kind everyone noticed.

Same class. Same bench row. Same teacher complaints. Same eye-rolls.

Veeresh was that boy—sharp-tongued, confident, always answering questions before the teacher even finished asking them. Teachers liked him. Girls whispered about him. Boys followed him. And Poornima? Poornima despised him for it.

Poornima was no less—topper, disciplined, expressive eyes that judged silently and a mouth that never backed down. She didn’t seek attention; it found her anyway. And Veeresh, for reasons unknown even to himself, made it his daily mission to poke at her calm.

“Miss Rai, are you going to lecture us again or let the class move forward?” Veeresh would say lazily, leaning back in his chair.

“And Mr. Raishinghania,” Poornima would reply without even looking at him, “are you planning to pass the exam with jokes or should I lend you my notes?”

The class lived for their fights.

They fought over:

Who topped the class

Who answered faster

Who got blamed when something went wrong

Who sat closer to the window

And yet—somehow—they always ended up together.

If Poornima hid Veeresh’s notebook before class, Veeresh made sure her water bottle mysteriously disappeared.

If Veeresh pulled a prank that landed Poornima in trouble, she returned it with interest—usually smarter, quieter, and far more humiliating.

They were enemy-friends—a strange, unspoken truce where no one else was allowed to insult the other.

Veeresh could tease Poornima. Others could not.

Poornima could scold Veeresh. Others would regret it.

They never admitted it, but they understood each other better than most.

Between bickering, there were moments—rare, accidental moments.

Like when Poornima silently passed Veeresh a pen during an exam without looking at him.

Or when Veeresh stayed back to help her carry her heavy project files, pretending it was “punishment duty.”

They never thanked each other.

Pride was too loud at that age.

By the time they reached 10th standard, their fights had softened—less sharp, more familiar. Teachers joked that they behaved like an old married couple. They both denied it loudly, at the same time.

“Never,” Poornima said.

“Impossible,” Veeresh said.

But on the last day of school, when the classroom emptied and the blackboard was filled with messy goodbyes, neither of them knew how to say farewell to each other.

So they didn’t.

They walked away thinking it didn’t matter.

Thinking school friendships fade anyway.

Neither of them realized then that some bonds don’t break—they just wait.