OPEN ARMS: SHUBMAN GILL

7

The next day, after a long practice session, Kundavai found herself staring at the empty page of her notebook, fingers tapping absentmindedly on the edge of the table. She wasn't one for grand gestures, and she definitely didn't wear her emotions on her sleeve. But something had shifted in her, and for once, the words she had kept buried inside her felt like they needed to be said — or at least written.

She grabbed a piece of scrap paper, folding it into a small, perfect paper airplane. It was clumsy at first, but the more she focused, the more it looked just like she wanted. When it was finished, she wrote just three words on it: I love you.

It was simple. Almost too simple. But for her, it felt like a declaration.

As the room quieted around her, she looked out the window, and there he was, leaning against the wall outside, a familiar figure. Shubman. She knew he'd be there soon, knew he was probably waiting for her, like always.

With a deep breath, she picked up the paper airplane and pushed the window open just enough to let it fly. The plane sailed through the air, twisting and turning, landing right at his feet. He didn't even need to unfold it. The words were clear enough.

Shubman knelt down slowly, picked up the paper, and unfolded it carefully. A grin tugged at the corners of his lips as he read the words — the words that had come from Kundavai. She wasn't one to say such things, to make things known, but here they were, out in the open.

He didn't look up at her immediately. Instead, he simply folded the paper back and tucked it into his pocket. No words. No immediate response. Just silence.

And for two days, it stayed like that.

Kundavai didn't know what to expect, but the silence between them felt louder than anything she could've imagined. He didn't approach her in practice. He didn't make any jokes. There was no teasing, no smirking. Shubman seemed distant, and it made her restless, like she had made some mistake she couldn't undo.

She couldn't bring herself to ask, couldn't break the silence that now hung between them. The two days passed slowly, and every time she saw him, she couldn't help but wonder what was going through his mind. Did he think she was being too forward? Too soft? Or maybe he was just giving her space to breathe, to figure things out.

But he didn't talk to her. Not a word. Not a glance in her direction when their paths crossed.

Kundavai hated this feeling. She had sent him that paper airplane knowing how much it meant for her to even show a sliver of vulnerability, but now, as the silence stretched on, it only made her question whether it had been a mistake to open up, even just a little.

She couldn't understand it. She didn't know what he was thinking. But all she could do was wait, as the quiet between them became more and more deafening.

The next day, Kundavai entered her room with a heavy heart, unsure of what to do next. The silence between her and Shubman had stretched longer than she had expected, and it was starting to eat away at her. She had done something she rarely did — shown vulnerability — and now she felt a little exposed. But what she hadn't anticipated was how it would feel to wait for him to respond, especially when he hadn't said a word in two whole days.

She sat on her bed, the weight of the quiet pressing down on her. Her mind kept replaying the moment she had sent the paper airplane. Had he taken her seriously? Had she overstepped? The uncertainty swirled around her like a storm she couldn't control.

Just as she was about to let out a frustrated sigh, a soft tap came at her window.

Startled, she rushed to the window and opened it just enough to see the paper airplane drifting in the breeze. It wasn't like the one she had sent him — this one had been folded with more care, more precision. The way he had always done things.