The monsoon had left behind a strange kind of quiet — not the peace that follows a storm, but the kind that presses against the chest and makes it hard to breathe. The days were longer now, drawn out by the weight of humidity and the ache of things left unsaid.
Weeks had passed since that night. The one with the message. The knock. The paper by the window.
And the name at the bottom.
Ayaan.
Purvi hadn't told anyone.
Not about the message. Not about the shadow she'd seen through the lens. Not even about how, after that night, everything had changed inside her.
Because how do you explain to people that you don't just miss someone — you miss the version of them that existed only in your heart?
She had stared at that paper for days.
It sat on her desk, folded now, but never forgotten.
She'd stared at Ayaan's name again and again. Wondering what it meant. Wondering if it was real.
The problem with being sick for so long — with being confined to a room, a window, a single view of the world — was that you started to question what was real and what was imagined. And sometimes, the line blurred.
But some things were real.
Like how he hadn't messaged her the night he landed.
Not until the third day.
"Hey, just landed. It's been crazy here. I'll call when I can. Love you."
She'd read that message over and over, each time feeling something in her gut twist. It was him. But it wasn't him.
It was words. Nothing more.
Typed with a thumb, sent across oceans, cold and flat. No voice note. No call. Not even a photo.
Purvi hadn't replied.
Not right away.
She told herself he was tired. Jet-lagged. Busy. It was a new world for him — she had to give him space. That's what love was, right?
Space.
But space, she was learning, sometimes becomes distance.
And distance grows teeth.
Life moved on. Reluctantly. Like an old record with a scratch — stuttering forward but never quite in tune.
School started again.
The uniforms felt tighter. The corridors smelled the same. The chalkboards were still stained. But everything felt different.
Because she was different.
There were days when she laughed with her friends, really laughed. Days when she solved complex equations, answered questions in class, and even caught herself humming in the kitchen while helping her mother chop vegetables.
But even then, her fingers reached for her phone.
Every few hours.
Like muscle memory.
Like addiction.
She scrolled through her inbox, rereading old messages like they were love letters from another life.
Nothing new.
No missed calls. No notifications.
She tried not to care.
She failed.
And when his name finally appeared again — late one evening, just past midnight — it didn't bring joy. Only a dull ache.
"Miss you. Sorry I've been quiet. Everything's hectic here."
She typed, deleted, retyped.
Then didn't respond.
Because what was she supposed to say?
She had spent the last few weeks writing about him in the margins of her notebook. But the words weren't sweet anymore. They weren't dreamy or gentle. They were sharp. Uneven. Real.
And for the first time, her story had no hero. Just a girl, sitting by a window, trying to understand why the person who once promised forever now lived in a timeline where she didn't exist.
She found herself scrolling through his social media one evening.
He had posted again. A group photo. Everyone smiling. Everyone there.
And beside him, a girl.
Not beautiful. Not perfect. Just close.
Too close.
Arm around his waist. Chin tilted toward his shoulder.
Her name was tagged. Purvi clicked the profile.
Public.
Pictures of study groups, lakeside walks, inside jokes in the captions.
And in one — the worst one — a blurred, candid photo of Ayaan holding her hand.
"Caught you two 😏💞 #cuties"
Purvi's hand trembled.
She wasn't a fool. She didn't need him to say the words.
She knew.
But knowing didn't dull the pain.
It sharpened it.
Like ice cracking in her lungs.
She stared at the screen for minutes that felt like years.
Then, without thinking, she pressed call.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then he picked up.
His voice was breezy. Casual. Like everything was fine.
"Hey, Purvi. What's up?"
She didn't answer right away.
Her voice, when it came, was smaller than she wanted it to be.
"Who is she?"
He paused. "What?"
"The girl in your post," she said, her throat tight. "Who is she?"
He gave a short, breathy laugh. "Oh… that's just someone from my course. Nothing serious."
But Purvi heard it.
That flicker in his voice. The same one she'd heard when he used to lie to his mother about skipping meals.
She knew him.
Or she thought she did.
"Why don't you ever tell me what's going on?" she whispered. "Why do I have to find out from your posts? Or your friends? Or strangers online?"
He was quiet.
Then, softly: "I didn't think it mattered."
Her heart cracked — not because he said it. But because he meant it.
There was a silence then.
Not the kind that begs to be filled.
The kind that ends things.
She closed her eyes.
"You know what?" she said, steady now. "Forget it. Don't call me again."
And she hung up.
Just like that.
It was like cutting a thread — a soft snap. No explosion. No tears. Just stillness.
And strangely, in that stillness, she found… peace.
Not happiness. Not yet.
But peace.
For the first time in months, she didn't wake up reaching for her phone.
She didn't wait for his voice.
She didn't watch the window expecting something to appear.
Instead, she walked.
Not far. Just to the front gate and back. Twice a day.
Then she painted.
Her old brushes were dusty, but her fingers remembered.
She painted sunsets — deep oranges and tired blues.
And she wrote again.
Not stories about strangers.
But about her.
Her hurt. Her strength. Her voice.
Her friends noticed.
"You look brighter," Meera said one afternoon during class. "Like… less haunted."
Purvi laughed.
It wasn't a bitter laugh.
It was real.
"I guess I stopped waiting," she replied.
But healing isn't a straight line.
And grief has a cruel memory.
Because one night, weeks later, her phone buzzed again.
A message.
From him.
"How's everything going back home? Miss you."
She stared at it.
Three seconds.
Ten.
Thirty.
But she didn't open it.
Didn't reply.
Not because it didn't hurt.
But because she finally understood something.
Some loves teach you how to hold on.
But the real ones?
They teach you how to let go.
Late that same night, she sat by the window again.
It was raining — not the wild monsoon kind. Just a soft drizzle. The kind that made the city lights blur into stars.
She opened her notebook and flipped to the last written page.
It was dated the night she told Ayaan goodbye.
She turned the page.
Blank.
New.
And she wrote:
"I thought love was about promises. But maybe it's more about honesty. About showing up. About not turning away when things get hard.
He couldn't stay.
But I stayed. With myself. Through every silence, every ache, every truth.
And maybe… that's the kind of love that saves you."
She closed the notebook, smiling.
And then — just as she reached to turn off the light — her phone lit up again.
Unknown number.
Her heart skipped.
A new message.
She opened it.
Unknown:"You're doing better now. That's good."
Purvi froze.
It was the same number.
The one from before.
The one that had sent her spiraling.
Purvi:"Who are you?"
This time, the typing bubble appeared immediately.
Unknown:"You'll know soon. Just keep writing."
Then nothing.
Purvi's hands trembled.
She looked out the window again.
The street was empty.
Still.
But somewhere in her chest, her heart beat faster.
Because endings weren't always endings.
Some were just the beginning of the next chapter.
And hers?
Was just getting started.