Dev's P.O.V.

"Amit Nagar," Rajesh uncle's voice pulls me out of my phone, and I shift my gaze to the window, feeling a touch of anticipation. "Now where?" he inquires, navigating the unfamiliar neighborhood.

I quickly retrieve my phone, the message from Aman crystal clear on the screen. "405, Shanti Niketan Residency, Tulsi Marg," I read aloud.

Rajesh uncle nods in understanding and turns the car, guiding us to our destination. As we approach, the car slows to a stop near a modest building. I can't help but notice how different it is from the lavish surroundings I'm accustomed to.

The apartment complex stands as a low-rise structure, a stark contrast to the towering, extravagant buildings in my neighborhood. It exudes simplicity and functionality. There's a sense of community here, one I'm not entirely familiar with.

I take in the scene, observing the residents going about their daily lives. Children play in the open courtyard, and a group of elderly men sits on a bench, engaged in a conversation. The ambiance is warm, cozy, and filled with an authenticity that feels refreshingly real.

As Rajesh uncle announces our arrival, I realize I'm here to understand Aman's world, to step into his life and connect with the person behind the few words he shares. The unpretentious charm of this place is a stark reminder of the differences between us. It's a chance to bridge the gap, to know Aman on a deeper level.

I step out of the car and stand in front of the entrance, my eyes catching the name on the board: "Shanti Niketan Residency." The simple, yet welcoming name of the place adds to the modest charm of the surroundings.

The entrance is nestled beneath a leafy archway, where vibrant bougainvillea flowers drape themselves gracefully. The soft rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze fills the air with a sense of tranquility.

I can't help but feel a bit lost in this new place. It's a world so different from what I'm accustomed to. This neighborhood is a far cry from the polished streets and manicured lawns I'm used to.

As I take in the surroundings, I notice small shops with colorful awnings, offering snacks and trinkets. Children run barefoot, playing games on the uneven, sun-warmed pavement. The sense of community here is palpable, with neighbors chatting amicably on their doorsteps and sharing smiles with passersby.

Rajesh uncle, concerned about my well-being, steps out of the car and surveys the place. He turns to me with a quizzical look and asks, "Are you sure, this is where you're supposed to come?"

I can't help but smile, warmed by his fatherly concern, and I nod gently, assuring him, "Yes, Uncle, I'm sure. This is where Aman lives."

As I make my way further into the neighborhood, I spot a small park with a simple, weathered wooden bench nestled beneath the shade of a majestic oak tree.

The playground equipment, though showing signs of wear and tear, is well-maintained and painted in bright, cheerful colors. Swings sway gently in the breeze.

The park may not be extravagant, but it's a place where laughter and connection thrive, a stark contrast to the structured and formal environment of our school.

I stand there, feeling lost and out of my element, taking in the heartwarming scene.

As I scan the park, feeling a bit out of place, my eyes land on Aman. There he is, sitting on a worn wooden bench, dressed casually in shorts and a t-shirt, a far cry from the school uniform I've always seen him in. But what truly warms my heart is the sight of him playing with a group of kids.

There, amid a group of cheerful kids, is cheerful Aman. His easy smile as he interacts with the children is a sight to behold.

He's entirely in his element, sharing smiles, laughter, and carefree moments with them. I can't help but marvel at this side of him, a side I've never witnessed before. He's not just the always-serious-quiet-boy-with-blue-glasses from school; he's a part of this vibrant community, and it's beautiful to witness.

Rajesh uncle, who's been accompanying me, notices my gaze fixed on Aman and asks, "Are you sure, Dev? It's quite different here."

I smile and reassure him, "Uncle, don't worry. Aman is my friend. I'll be just fine." The words may be for Rajesh uncle, but in my heart, I'm reassuring myself as well. This neighborhood may be unfamiliar, but it's a part of Aman's world, and I'm ready to be a part of it with him.

As I take a seat on a nearby bench, I keep my eyes on Aman. He continues to play with the children, and my heart swells with a sense of admiration for the person he is beyond the school's walls.

The sun is gently warming my skin, and the sounds of children's laughter fill the air.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sight of a little girl running from Aman's side towards me. She couldn't be more than five or six years old, her eyes wide with curiosity. Her tiny feet carry her with a sense of urgency as she reaches my side.

I can't help but smile at her as she stands in front of me, her innocent eyes fixed on the bracelet I'm wearing. It's a simple leather band with a small charm, nothing extravagant, but it holds sentimental value for me.

She points at the bracelet and asks in a soft, curious voice, "What's that on your wrist?"

I bend down slightly to her level and reply, "It's a bracelet, sweetheart. It's something I wear." As I hold out my wrist, she reaches out a tiny hand, her fingers gently touching the leather.

Her eyes light up with fascination, and she giggles, her smile infectious. "It's pretty!" she exclaims, her words filled with genuine admiration.

I can't help but feel a warmth in my chest at her pure and unfiltered enthusiasm. I pass her another gentle smile and say, "Thank you. I think you're pretty too." Her cheeks turn a shade of pink as she blushes, and I can't help but find her innocence endearing.

Just as our little interaction unfolds, I notice Aman, his gaze focused on me. He's walking over, his steps measured and gentle.

The little girl notices Aman approaching and, with a shy smile, she takes a step back. Aman reaches my side, and his eyes meet mine before he crouches down beside me and says to the little girl, still curious. "Shivi. That's my friend. He's a good guy."

As Aman introduced me to the little girl as "Shivi," her shy smile widens, and her eyes are fixed on me.

I offer her a warm smile and say, "Hi, Shivi." Her name feels delicate on my lips as I speak. "I'm Dev.

"She gazes up at me, her eyes sparkling with curiosity and trust. "Hi, Dev," she replies in a sweet, soft voice.

As Shivi runs back to play with the other children, Aman and I share a knowing look.

"Hi," I say with a warm smile, trying to make him feel comfortable.

Aman, his cheeks slightly flushed, manages a soft response, "Hi."

The morning sun gently kisses my skin and the air is filled with the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers, a gentle morning breeze carries with it a sense of tranquility.

"I like it here," I say with a soft smile, my words breaking the peaceful silence. Aman suddenly turns to me, his eyes lock onto mine, and there's a hint of surprise in his gaze. It's as if he's shocked by my statement, or perhaps he's wondering if I'm being truthful.

I chuckle at his reaction and ask, "What? It's nice here."

Aman's voice breaks the peaceful moment as he says, "We should go. We've got an assignment to work on." I nod in agreement, realizing that there's more to discover about Aman's life beyond this morning interlude.

I take my backpack from Rajesh uncle, who's been standing near the bench, silently observing.

Uncle reminds me, "Just call whenever you want to leave, Dev."

I nod, acknowledging his words, but for now, I'm in no hurry to leave. This is where Aman's heart resides, and right now, I'm content to be a part of his world, feeling a warmth I never expected to find in this unfamiliar place.

As we get up to leave, Aman leads the way. We cross the garden, and the path to the building stands in stark contrast to the grandeur of my neighborhood. The walkway is made of well-worn concrete, with patches of grass pushing through the cracks. It's clear that maintenance is minimal, and yet there's a sense of character in its modesty.

The building itself is unassuming, with faded paint and aging architecture. The balconies are small, adorned with hanging laundry and potted plants, adding a touch of homeliness. It's clear that this is a place where people live their lives with simplicity and authenticity, far from the polished lives of my world.

Aman leads the way as we enter the building complex. The hallway inside is dimly lit, and the walls show signs of age, with peeling paint and the occasional scuff mark. It's evident that this place has its own unique character, different from the sleek environments I'm accustomed to.

As we walk further inside, Aman suddenly stops and turns to the stairs. His expression is slightly embarrassed, and he nods toward the nearby elevator, saying, "The lift is broken."

I catch on to his discomfort and decide to ease the tension with a light-hearted remark. "Well, I guess we're taking the scenic route, then," I say, offering a playful grin. Aman's lips twitch into a smile in response, and the awkwardness dissipates as we start to ascend the stairs together.

We continue our ascent up the stairs. Aman leads the way, and as we reach the 4th floor, I can't help but feel the exhaustion in my muscles. Climbing so many stairs at once is a new experience for me, but I don't want to let Aman know. I maintain my composure and follow him down the hallway.

The other doors in the corridor catch my attention. They each have their own unique characteristics. Some doors are similar to others, simple and unadorned, while others show signs of personalization, reflecting the diverse lives of the residents in this building.

People pass by us in the hallway, engaged in their daily routines. Neighbors exchange friendly greetings, creating an atmosphere of warmth and familiarity. It's evident that this is a closely-knit community where everyone knows each other.

The sound of conversations fills the air, accompanied by laughter, the opening and closing of doors, and the occasional aroma of home-cooked meals drifting through the hallway.

Aman pauses in front of a simple wooden door, labeled 405. The exterior of the door is modest and unpretentious. It's a small wooden door, with a net screen door on the outside. A simple doormat rests at its base, and on either side, there are two flower pots, adding a touch of color and life to the otherwise plain hallway.

As Aman opens the door to his apartment, a neighbor from across the hall peeks out and asks with a warm smile, "Are you having your friends over, Aman?"

Aman replies with a nod and a, "Yes," before we enter the apartment.

As I step inside, I'm greeted by the cozy ambiance of the space.

The living room is small but comfortable, with a well-worn sofa and a wooden coffee table at its center. There's a soft, warm light filtering in through the curtains, casting a gentle glow on the room. The walls are adorned with framed photos and artwork, adding a personal touch to the space. In one corner, there's a cozy nook with a separate bed, which piques my curiosity. It seems like a thoughtful use of the living area.

My curiosity gets the better of me, and I ask, "Whose bed is this?"

Aman, a bit embarrassed, replies, "It's mine."

"Seems like someone's chosen the best spot in the house," I say with a playful grin.

My eyes are drawn to the pictures adorning the walls. They tell a story of Aman's life, and what strikes me most are the photographs of Aman and his mother.

I can't help but smile as I gaze at the images. In one of them, a young Aman, barely taller than the coffee table, is wearing oversized glasses that make him look absolutely adorable. His wide, innocent eyes behind those glasses hold a sense of wonder and curiosity. He's clutching a stuffed toy with a bright smile.

I turn to Aman, who has been quietly observing me as I look at the pictures. My eyes are still fixed on the adorable childhood photo of Aman.

I can't help but point to the picture and say, "This is adorable, Aman." Aman blushes at the compliment and replies with a shy "Thanks."

I offer a playful smile and tease him gently, "You know, typically, hosts ask their guests to have a seat and offer at least a glass of water." Aman chuckles and nods.

He with a warm smile, heads towards the kitchen, and I follow him. The dining area consists of a compact wooden table and chairs. The kitchen is open, with simple appliances and a small window that lets in natural light.

As he starts pouring a glass of water, I take a moment to look around and genuinely compliment his home. "You have a very sweet and cozy home, Aman," I say, appreciating the authenticity and warmth that fills the space.

Aman hands me a glass of water, and I take it gratefully. As I sip the cool water, I can't help but feel a sense of comfort in this simple yet inviting atmosphere.

We both take a seat at the dining table, and I place my backpack on the table. Aman follows suit, arranging his notebook, pens, and assignments neatly. As we sit across from each other, I can't help but feel the urge to learn more about Aman's life.

I decide to start with a simple question, "How's your mom doing? Where's she?"

Aman replies, "She's at work."

I raise an eyebrow, "On a Sunday?"

Aman nods simply, opening his notebook and saying, "Weekend overtime."

A pang of sympathy tugs at my heart as I realize that Aman's mother must be working hard to make ends meet. I glance behind Aman, and my eyes land on a picture on the wall. It's a photo of Aman and his mother, both of them smiling, and it seems to be from one of Aman's birthdays.

I can't help but wonder about Aman's father and why there's no picture of him. In the hospital, Aman had said that his father died. Still, there should be at least a picture of him somewhere. There's a depth to Aman's life that I don't know at all even after all these months, simply because I never tried to know...I never cared.

I take a sip of water, and my curiosity gets the best of me. I clear my throat before asking gently, "Where does your mom work, Aman? What does she do?"

Aman's gaze remains focused on his notebook, his pen poised as if contemplating his response. After a few moments of silence, he finally raises his eyes to meet mine, his expression guarded. It's as if he's silently questioning my sudden interest, and I can't blame him. I've never asked about his life, about his family, and now, out of the blue, I'm prying.

His gaze lingers on mine, the unspoken questions in his eyes. God, how poorly I've been as a friend. I've never shown interest in his world, never bothered to ask, or be there for him in the way he's been for me.

I exhale softly, feeling a mixture of guilt and determination. Aman deserves better, and I want to be that better friend. I want to understand him and be there for him, not just for my sake but for his as well. My voice is gentle as I finally admit, "Aman, I'll be honest with you. I am not the best person or the best kind of friend...the kind of friend you deserve. I haven't tried to know you or understand your life. But I want to change that. I want to know you, your life, to be there for you. I've been selfish, and I'm sorry."

Aman's silence hangs in the air, and I can't help but think that maybe he doesn't think I'm good enough to know about his personal life. And honestly, I can't blame him for thinking that way. I've been selfish, wrapped up in my own world, and I've never really tried to be a true friend to him.

I sigh softly and open my notebook, trying to break the awkward silence with a lame attempt at humor. "You know," I start, forcing a small smile, "I shot Ajit a message this morning, asking him to join us, and you won't believe the excuse he came up with for not showing up – apparently, he had to organize his sock drawer by color, and it was a matter of great urgency!"

Aman remains silent for a moment, he finally speaks "Dev," Aman's voice is hesitant, filled with a soft sincerity as he begins to speak. His gaze is still averted, not meeting my eyes. It's as if he's carefully choosing each word, and it fills me with anticipation.

"I dunno what the best kinda persons are, but..." Aman starts, and I can't help but listen intently. His voice is soft, and the vulnerability in his words touches my heart.

"But you, Dev... you're... kind." His words take me by surprise and a small smile tugs at the corners of my lips at his words.

Aman continues, his voice barely above a whisper, "You didn't judge people, you never judged me, and you've done things for me that no one else has."

"You never... judged, never believed what others had said about me" he repeats, "Always sat with me in the cafeteria."

"And that time when you shared your umbrella with me in the rain," Aman continues, and my smile widens at the memory.

"I felt like I mattered," his voice barely a whisper, "people always act like I don't matter, I'm not even there..."

His voice grows even softer as he recalls, "And when my mom was in the hospital, you didn't hesitate to drive me there."

Aman finally meets my eyes, his gaze holding an unspoken, unreadable vulnerability as he says, "So, for me, you're the best kind of person."