Page 65 of Mrs. Rathore

I blinked at the screen, my heart skipping a beat. More texts followed from the same sender:

“Hey, you haven’t checked my message.”

“Can I get your number?”

“Do you remember me?”

Prashant? The name rang a bell. My thumb hovered over his profile picture or rather, the blank circle where his display picture should have been. The account was private, with no posts or profile photos.

Still, something stirred in my memory. Prashant... Prashant Pandey.

Oh my God.

Was it Prashant? The one from my childhood? The boy who used to walk me home from school and cover for me when I skipped classes to sneak in extra dance practice?

I needed to confirm. My fingers moved before my brain could stop me, and I sent a quick reply:

“Hey there, I know Prashant, but I’m not sure if you’re the same one.”

The response came almost instantly.

“Avi, you replied to me?! I thought you wouldn’t even recognize me.”

“I told you I’m not sure. You haven’t even uploaded a single picture!”

“This is just a temporary Instagram ID. I don’t really use social media much. Can you send me your number?”

“Are you insane? I’m not sending my number to a random guy online!”

“Trust me, I’m not random,” he replied quickly. “How else would I know you know Prashant? Think, Avi. I’m that same schoolmate. The one who saved you from getting suspended when you skipped your biology class to prepare for that district-level dance competition. The one who used to walk you home because your dad worked late. The same Prashant who once broke your mom’s favorite flower vase after your father called me your ‘big brother.’ Remember that?”

I stared at the message, stunned. My chest ached a little with the sudden rush of nostalgia. These weren’t random memories, these were moments that no stranger could have known. My father had made that careless “big brother” comment once, and I still remember how furious Prashant had gotten. He glared at me like I’d betrayed him, and then, true to his dramatic flair, stormed out and broke the vase in our hallway as if it were some declaration of war.

“Where are you now?” I typed, feeling my heart squeeze a little.

“Jammu,” he replied.

A quiet breath slipped from my lips.

Jammu. That made sense. Back then, Prashant’s father had been a driver in our colony, but when he fell seriously ill, their family moved back to their hometown in Kashmir. I remember crying the day he left. He was the only friend I had in that phase of my life as he was protective, funny, infuriating, and oddly sweet.

“You… you seem pretty active on social media to find me like that,” I typed.

“Nah, you just popped up in a dance reel. Lucky me. You’re living your dream, Avi. I’m proud of you.”

My cheeks warmed, completely catching me off guard. The warmth in his words, the way he said “proud of you” it all came rushing back: his voice, his crooked smile, his ridiculous sense of humor. Prashant was two years older, always taller, always louder, and somehow always there when I needed him.

I smiled without meaning to. How many memories were tucked away behind that one name?

“Why haven’t you put your profile up?” I asked.

“Told you, this is temporary. I’ll deactivate it once I get your number. So… what do you think?”

I hesitated.

Then I typed: “I got married, Prashant.”

There was silence. The little typing bubble appeared… then disappeared. Then it appeared again. Then vanished.