There I was, happily enjoying with my friends in the bus, singing songs and fooling around when I saw you. A grotesque scene it was. Your hand smeared in your own blood. I leaped out of the bus and ran towards you. I didn't realize that I had jumped out of a moving bus. I reached just in time to bid you adieu. People were making you sit in the van to take you home. All I could do was raise the eyebrows of mine to ask you what had happened and you just lifted your plastered thumb. I gave an empathetic expression when the van started off. I could see your best friend desperately running behind the van to inquire about the injury. I thanked god that I could at least have a look at you.
I along with your friend stormed into the school and questioned each and every possible person who would know about your injury. We investigated it thoroughly. He along with certain friends of yours made a plan to visit you in the hospital. I too wanted to come. Only half an hour was left for the school to get over. Never in my life did I find the history period so tedious. Today, all I could think was,"Is he ohkay?"
By the time I reached home, I realised that I could not contain it any longer, I just had to call you and talk to you. I rang, three times, no answer. I assumed you were either with your friends or you were taking rest. For the next five hours, you simply have no idea how I controlled my anxiety. Finally, when I called you precisely an hour back, you picked up your phone(thankfully!). I heaved a sigh of relief when I finally heard your voice.
A dislocated thumb is your highlight of the day. Basically, no schoolwork, no exams and no physical activity for you for the next one month. "Is that dreadful or comforting?" I asked. "Neither one" was his reply.
