The week before Tara's birthday, Meera found herself more restless than usual. She doodled on the back of her notebooks during class, chewing her pencil, eyes flicking toward Tara every now and then. She wasn't sure why she felt nervous—birthdays were supposed to be easy. Cake, balloons, gifts. But this was different. It was Tara's birthday.
And Tara, despite her jokes and books and brave storm-running, had never once mentioned a party, or what kind of cake she liked, or even if she celebrated at all.
So Meera decided to make her a card.
Not one of those store-bought, glitter-smothered ones. She wanted it to be real. She folded an old chart paper in half, glued bits of magazine clippings, and wrote a poem she had kept in her diary for weeks—about monsoons and laughter, and two girls who sat by the window, sharing the same silence.
It wasn't perfect. The glue left smudges, and one corner folded weird. But it was hers. Honest. And she hoped that counted.
The morning of Tara's birthday was strangely sunny, the rain taking a break like it, too, was giving her space to shine. Tara wore a purple ribbon in her hair—the same shade as her favorite sunsets—and when she stepped onto the bus, a few kids clapped and cheered.
Tara just laughed and bowed dramatically. "Yes, thank you, my loyal fans."
Meera laughed too, but her fingers tightened around the envelope in her lap.
She waited until lunch break, when they were sitting on the back steps of the library, their usual hideout. Tara was eating her mother's lemon rice, and Meera's heart thudded like it was trying to escape her chest.
"I—uh—made something," Meera said, thrusting the card forward like a confession.
Tara blinked, took it, and opened it slowly. She read every word.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then, she looked up. "You wrote this?"
Meera nodded, cheeks burning.
Tara smiled. Not the wide, joking kind she gave everyone else—but a quiet, soft one that made Meera feel like she'd just handed over a piece of sky.
"This is the best gift I've gotten today," she said. "Maybe ever."
She folded the card gently, like it was breakable, and tucked it into the front pocket of her bag. "I'm going to keep this forever."
Meera grinned. "You kind of have to. I didn't sign it, so no one else will know who it's from."
Tara bumped her shoulder against Meera's. "I'd still know."
The bell rang, breaking the moment. But the warmth lingered.
Later that day, while the class erupted into birthday cake chaos and Tara was handed a dozen wrapped boxes, Meera watched from her desk, a quiet smile on her face.
Because she had given something nobody else had.
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Moral:
The most meaningful gifts aren't always wrapped in ribbons or bought with money—they're the ones wrapped in thought, made with time, and given with the heart.