The Third Wheel
The train hummed beneath them, a steady rhythm of metal on tracks—almost like a heartbeat.
Diya sat by the window, watching the countryside blur into shades of green and gold. But her focus kept slipping—not to the scenery, but to the growing dissonance beside her.
Maddy sat next to her.
But somehow, Sandy had wedged herself in between—figuratively, and at times, quite literally.
What was supposed to be a soft, simple return to college with Maddy had slowly started unraveling. The quiet laughter Diya had dreamed of was drowned out by Sandy's relentless chatter. She fluttered around Maddy like she belonged there, offering him snacks without asking, tossing her head back at inside jokes Diya wasn't a part of, folding her legs onto the seat like it was hers too.
Then came the moment that lodged itself like a splinter beneath Diya's skin.
Sandy, mid-laugh, leaned her head against Maddy's shoulder.
Diya froze.
Maddy met her eyes for half a second—hesitating, uncertain—but then gave an awkward smile and let it happen.
It felt like a slap dipped in sugar.
Diya didn't say anything. She smiled. She always smiled. Because saying something would make her look insecure. Or dramatic. Or the jealous type. So instead, she pulled out her phone and scrolled through nothing, letting the screen dull the sting in her chest.
Her thumb hovered over Harsh's name.
Diya: "I think I'm losing him."
Harsh's POV
Harsh's phone lit up in the dark of his dorm room. He didn't need to read the text to know who it was—or what it was about.
He'd known this would happen.
Known it the second Maddy had mentioned Sandy was joining them. Known it every time he'd watched Sandy "accidentally" brush Maddy's arm, or laugh too loud at his jokes, or remind everyone—especially Diya—that she'd known him first.
Harsh typed fast, his jaw tight.
Harsh: "You're not losing him. He's just an idiot who doesn't see what's right in front of him."
A pause. Then—
Harsh: "Tell him how you feel."
Diya's reply was immediate.
Diya: "And say what? 'Your best friend is making me feel like an outsider in my own relationship?'"
Harsh exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He could picture her—curled into herself, biting her lip raw to keep from crying. The girl who always put others first, even when it cost her everything.
His fingers moved before he could stop them.
Harsh: "Then let me say it for you."
Diya: "No. Don't."
A beat. Then—
Diya: "I just… wish he'd notice on his own."
Harsh stared at the screen, something bitter rising in his throat.
That was the problem, wasn't it?
Maddy never noticed.
The Unraveling
Night settled over the train, quiet and heavy.
Maddy dozed beside Diya, his breathing slow and even. Sandy was above them, finally silent.
But Diya lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her heart too loud in her chest.
She wasn't angry. Not really.
She was hurt.
Confused.
And more than anything, she was tired of having to fight—so quietly, so constantly—just to feel seen.
In that stillness, Diya realized something that chilled her more than any argument could have:
Sometimes, heartbreak doesn't come with raised voices or dramatic exits.
Sometimes, it slips in quietly.
In laughter that excludes you.
In shoulders that aren't yours to lean on.
In the quiet, aching erosion of being gently made invisible.
Her phone buzzed again.
Harsh: "You still there?"
She swallowed.
Diya: "Yeah."
Harsh: "Look. I know you don't want to hear this, but… if he can't see what's happening, that's on him. Not you."
Diya closed her eyes.
She knew he was right.
But knowing didn't make it hurt any less.