The rain had started quietly that afternoon, tapping against the glass panes of Amrita's bedroom like an old friend announcing its arrival. She sat cross-legged on her bed, flipping through pages of an old diary she'd nearly forgotten. The pages smelled of ink and nostalgia, inked in a hand that trembled with time but never with feeling.
Tushar had not been in touch for three weeks. Not a call, not a message. A silence so deafening, it filled every crevice of Amrita's life with a gnawing emptiness. At first, she chalked it up to work. Then, maybe a personal crisis. But now, it felt like something more. Something deliberate.
She turned the page.
August 2009
"Tushar brought me a bar of my favorite chocolate today just because I said I was tired yesterday. I didn't even remember telling him. How does he remember the tiniest details of me?"
She closed the diary and looked up at the ceiling. Sometimes, the weight of love wasn't in the grand gestures, but in the unnoticed offerings—a chocolate bar, a song on the radio, a text at 2 a.m. that simply said, "You okay?"
There was a knock at the door.
Her mother poked her head in. "There's a courier for you. Some kind of envelope."
Amrita's brow furrowed. She rarely got couriers. She opened the envelope, and inside was a neatly folded piece of pale blue stationery—the kind they used to write letters on in school. No name, no sender.
She unfolded it and read the familiar handwriting:
*"Amu,
I know I owe you a thousand explanations, and maybe even more apologies. But instead of giving you justifications, I want to give you honesty.
Do you remember that alley near the park where we used to sneak off to skip classes and share kulfis? I went there yesterday. It's still the same. Quiet, dusty, almost forgotten. I feel like that alley now. And you? You are the sunshine that once made it a place worth remembering.
I am dealing with something I couldn't explain over a phone call or a text. I was afraid you'd try to fix it, like you always do. But some things… some things we have to break through alone.
I miss you every hour. Every damn hour.
I left something under your pillow. Maybe it'll say the rest.
T"*
Her heart galloped. With trembling fingers, Amrita turned to her pillow and slipped her hand beneath it. She pulled out a smaller envelope, weathered and slightly crumpled. Inside was a pressed flower.
The flame-of-the-forest.
She gasped.
It was the very flower he had tucked into her hair the day of their college farewell, when he told her, "This one's you. Fiery. Beautiful. Impossible to ignore."
Tears blurred her vision. It hadn't just been a silence. It had been a storm he didn't want her caught in.
Later that evening, Amrita walked to the small alley behind the park. The drizzle had turned into a gentle mist, and the streetlights bathed everything in a warm, surreal glow. There, under the faded signage of an old chai shop, sat Tushar.
He looked older. Not by years, but by weight. A kind of exhaustion that eyes can't hide.
She didn't say anything.
Neither did he.
They just stood there, the air heavy with everything unspoken.
Finally, she sat beside him.
"You could have told me," she whispered.
"I was afraid if I told you, I'd lose you," he replied.
She looked at him, eyes sharp. "But by not telling me, you nearly did."
A pause.
"I was diagnosed with depression," he said, looking down. "And it scared me. Because… what if I became a version of myself you couldn't recognize? What if I stopped being the Tushar who brought you chocolate bars and remembered your smallest stories?"
Amrita took his hand. "You'll always be the Tushar I love. Even when you forget to smile. Even when you're lost."
He broke then. Right there, under that rusted chai shop sign, with the mist soaking into his shirt. The boy who always held everyone else's pain finally let go.
She let him cry.
The moment passed like a tide—violent but necessary.
Then, with a gentle smile, she said, "You once told me I was your sunshine. Maybe it's time you remembered where the light is."
He looked at her, a silent vow in his gaze. "Let's go home?"
She nodded.
They walked away from the alley, step by step, the quiet wrapping around them like a soft promise. The rain had stopped.
---
Moral of the Chapter:
True friendship isn't about always knowing what to say—it's about showing up when it matters, even in silence. In the face of darkness, the truest bond offers light—not by fixing, but by staying.