The school bus groaned to a stop in front of the red-bricked house at the edge of the colony. A drizzle pattered on the tin roof, drumming a soft rhythm as Meera clutched her satchel and stepped onto the bus. It was her first day at St. Agnes High School, and everything about the world felt like it was holding its breath—new streets, new uniforms, new faces.
Meera had always hated first days.
The bus was crowded with chatter—half-lost homework, cricket scores, and the latest TV serials—but Meera didn't hear much. She was too busy scanning for the only space she ever felt safe in: the window seat. She found one near the back, already taken by a girl who sat with her chin in her palm, staring out into the wet morning.
Meera hesitated.
The girl turned, meeting her eyes with a quiet steadiness. "You can sit," she said simply, shifting her bag onto her lap.
Meera nodded gratefully and slid in.
They sat without speaking. The bus pulled forward with a groan, splashing through puddles and rumbling over potholes. Outside, trees blurred into watercolor strokes. Inside, the silence between the two girls felt oddly comfortable, like they had known each other in another life.
"I'm Tara," the girl said eventually, not looking away from the window.
"Meera."
"You're new."
"Yeah."
Another pause. But this one wasn't awkward—it felt like space being made.
Tara glanced at her sideways. "Do you like to read?"
Meera smiled faintly. "Love it."
Tara reached into her bag and pulled out a slightly dog-eared book—'Anne of Green Gables.' "You can borrow this," she said. "I've read it twice. It's about a girl who talks too much but somehow makes everyone love her."
Meera took the book carefully, like it was something precious.
The rain thickened. The bus grew quieter. Somewhere between two turns, Meera leaned a little closer to the window, her shoulder brushing Tara's.
Tara didn't move away.
Over the next few weeks, that seat by the window became a sanctuary. Books were exchanged like secret letters. Quiet laughs were shared when others weren't looking. Meera, who had never been good at speaking first, found that with Tara, silence said enough.
They talked about everything—why Meera missed her old friends in Pune, why Tara liked purple sunsets, how their mothers were too busy to notice when they came home late. They didn't always agree, but they always understood.
One afternoon, when the bus broke down and everyone grumbled about the heat, Tara handed Meera a lemon candy and said, "We can walk, you and me. It's not far." So they did—barefoot for part of the way, giggling like little kids through muddy lanes.
That day, Meera laughed harder than she had in months.
Sometimes, friendship doesn't begin with loud promises or perfect timing. Sometimes, it begins with a quiet invitation: You can sit.
---
Moral:
True friendship doesn't need grand gestures. It begins in the quiet moments, in shared silences, in offering someone a place beside you—exactly as they are.