The Unraveling
The train rumbled softly beneath them, a lullaby of steel and rhythm. Sleeper lights flickered low. All around them, passengers had tucked themselves into dreams—curtains drawn, breaths even, the world hushed into motion.
Diya lay curled on the lower berth, fatigue soaking into her limbs. Maddy lay beside her, their bodies barely touching but connected enough to feel real. She wasn't speaking, just watching the ceiling, her eyes distant. But the silence between them wasn't sharp. It was gentle. Almost safe.
And then, like muscle memory, he moved closer in his sleep. One arm slid around her waist, pulling her into him. His breath brushed the top of her head. She let out a soft sigh.
For the first time that day, she felt still. Anchored.
Warmth pooled in her chest. Maybe… maybe we're okay again.
But just as her eyes began to flutter shut, a voice cut through the calm.
"Maddy…"
Sandy.
Still awake. Still watching. Her voice was low, careful—but edged. "You can sleep on my berth if you want. I'm not tired. I'll just sit there. If anyone sees you and Diya like this… it won't look good."
Diya stilled.
Her heartbeat quickened. The words weren't loud, but they echoed.
If anyone sees…
And just like that, memory crashed in. That night on campus—the way Maddy had snapped at her for gifting him the bottle in front of others. How he'd pulled away, embarrassed. "Not in front of them. I don't want them to think anything." The way her fingers had trembled afterward.
That shame. That shrinking.
And now this. Echoed. Repeated. Dressed in a different voice, but no less cutting.
She didn't move. She waited. One heartbeat. Two. Maddy stirred, blinking himself awake.
All she needed was one glance. A question. A pause.
But he didn't give it.
He blinked at Sandy. Then sat up. Slowly. Silently. A little clumsy with sleep—but not with doubt.
And he left.
Just like that.
The berth beside her emptied. And Sandy filled it.
She climbed up, casual, unbothered. Her voice floated down with a practiced lightness. "Yaar, this journey feels so long, na? Thank God we're all together."
Diya nodded. Smiled.
But inside, something crumbled. Not loudly. Just… quietly. Like paper folding in on itself.
She wasn't angry.
Just… erased.
As though someone had quietly edited her out of a photograph, replaced her with softer colors and fewer questions.
Maddy hadn't said anything. Hadn't stayed. Hadn't noticed the way her fingers had curled around the blanket, white-knuckled. He'd just gone.
Because maybe, in some small corner of himself, he still didn't want to be seen as hers.
And that—that ache of almost belonging, almost being chosen—was what kept her awake.
Long after the train rocked into slumber.
Long after the berth cooled beside her.
Long after love had turned into something lonelier than silence.
Harsh's POV
Harsh's phone buzzed at 2:17 AM.
He knew before he looked.
Diya: "I can't do this."
Three words. That's all it took for his stomach to drop.
He sat up, fingers flying over the screen.
Harsh: "What happened?"
The typing bubbles appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
Then—
Diya: "He left."
A pause.
Diya: "Again."
Harsh exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He could picture it—Diya, curled into herself, trying to make herself smaller. Trying not to need too much.
His jaw tightened.
Harsh: "Do you want me to call?"
Diya: "No."
A beat. Then—
Diya: "I just… I thought it would be different this time."
Harsh stared at the screen, something hot and bitter rising in his throat.
He'd warned Maddy. Over and over. "You're going to lose her if you keep doing this."
But Maddy never listened.
Because Maddy never saw.
Not the way Harsh did.
Not the way he noticed the way Diya's smile didn't reach her eyes anymore. The way she hesitated before reaching for Maddy's hand. The way she'd started folding into herself, like she was afraid of taking up too much space.
Harsh typed fast, his fingers pressing harder than necessary.
Harsh: "You deserve someone who stays."
He hesitated. Then added—
Harsh: "Someone who chooses you. Every time."
The words hung between them, heavy with everything he couldn't say.
I would.
But that wasn't his place.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
The Aftermath
Diya didn't reply.
But Harsh knew she'd read it.
Knew she was lying there, staring at those words, wondering if they were true.
Wondering if she'd ever believe them.
And as the train carried them further into the night, Harsh lay awake too—aching for the girl who kept loving someone who kept leaving.
And wondering when, if ever, she'd stop waiting for him to come back.