"There's something about midnight conversations that make the world quieter, laughter louder, and the feelings sneakier."

Shivangi's POV

There's a certain kind of silence that settles when someone leaves. Not the quiet you want, but the one that creeps into the corners, replacing things you didn't know you'd grown used to.

Samarth had left just yesterday, and already, the apartment felt... off.

Too neat.

Too cold.

Too quiet.

I had spent most of the day pretending to work on my next book. The cursor blinked accusingly on an empty document while I scrolled endlessly, reread old drafts, even organized my spice rack. But everything reminded me of him.

The living room still held the faint scent of his cologne — that warm, musky scent that had embedded itself into the cushion he used the most. A towel hung on the hook behind the bathroom door, his toothbrush still in the holder. And his charger, the one he was always hunting for, sat forgotten on the nightstand like it missed being needed.

I picked it up, turning it between my fingers, debating whether to text him.

That's when my phone buzzed.

Samarth: Did you eat? Took your meds? Or do I have to come all the way back and check? 😒

I exhaled — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Just... something between relief and warmth.

I typed:

Me: Yes, I ate. Your pen's here.

I stared at it. Then deleted it.

Typed it again. Deleted again.

Why did one sentence suddenly feel like an emotional thesis?

Eventually, I sent it.

His reply came faster than I'd expected.

Samarth: Pen? Great excuse to call me.

I rolled my eyes and smiled at the same time.

Me: Excuse me?

Samarth: You missed me, admit it.

The words made something flutter in my chest. Stupid. He was just joking.

Right?

Before I could come up with a comeback, the screen flashed with his name. A call.

My thumb hovered over the green button.

And then I answered.

Before I could reply with something scathing and sarcastic, my phone rang.

My traitorous thumb answered it.

"Hello?"

"Shivangi Rathore," 

he said, all mock serious, 

"is this how you tell people you miss them now? Through pen notifications?"

"I was being nice,"

 I said, feigning nonchalance. 

"You should've thanked me."

"Oh, thank you,"

 he replied, his voice low, familiar, teasing.

 "And here's me thinking about filing a case for emotional damage because I had to use a ball pen."

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. 

"You're unbelievable."

"You're laughing," 

he noted smugly. 

"My job here is done."

"You sound tired."

"I am," 

he said, exhaling. 

"But I couldn't sleep. Thought I'd check on my roommate."

"Ex-roommate,"

 I corrected.

"Ouch."

"You're the one who left."

"You're the one who refused to let me stay forever,"

 he shot back.

The silence on the line felt like soft wind brushing against my ear. Comfortable. Unexpected.

"So," 

he said, drawing the syllable out. 

"Tell me something I don't know about you."

"What, now we're playing twenty questions?"

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm just killing time."

"And what if I say I'm not in the mood?"

"Then I'll guess random things. Like... you were a spelling bee champ in sixth grade, and your biggest fear is—wait—lizards?"

"Incorrect," 

I smirked. 

"Snakes. Lizards are just... ugh. But snakes freak me out."

"I knew it. You're the kind of girl who would freeze and make dramatic gasps."

"Because that's rational, Samarth. Not all of us are cold-blooded like you."

"Touché."

We both chuckled.

"Your turn,"

 I said.

"To ask or answer?"

"Answer."

"What's the question?"

"What's something no one knows about you?"

He hummed like he was seriously considering it.

 "I've never kissed anyone under the rain."

"That's oddly specific," 

I said, surprised.

"And very romantic,"

 he added.

"Wait,"

 I said.

 "You? The guy who says romance novels are unrealistic?"

"Doesn't mean I can't enjoy the drama. Also..." 

his voice dropped half an octave.

 "Some books make it sound pretty damn tempting."

I paused. Suddenly, the conversation felt a little warmer. A little... different.

"Your voice changed,"

 I noted.

"So did yours."

"Shut up,"

 I muttered.

"No, no. Go on. What else don't I know about you?"

 he prompted.

"I like making pancakes at 2 a.m."

"You like burning pancakes at 2 a.m.," 

he corrected.

"Once. I burned them once."

"And they were kind of cute. Like you."

There. He'd said it. Smooth, soft, and totally out of the blue.

I stared at my ceiling, my heartbeat uneven.

"You flirting with me, doctor?"

"Depends. You blushing, author?"

I covered my face, grateful he couldn't see me.

"You're impossible."

"I'm exhausted. This is me with no filter."

"Well, this version is tolerable."

"Hey!"

 he protested, mock-offended.

We lapsed into silence again. But this time, it was golden.

"I was going to ask you out for coffee,"

 I blurted before I could stop myself.

"Now?"

"No. I mean... I wrote it. Then deleted it."

He was quiet for a second.

 "You should've sent it."

"Why?"

"Because I would've said yes."

I turned to my side, curling into the pillow. I could almost feel him on the other side of the bed, the way he used to sleep facing the wall before always rolling back to check on me.

"You should sleep," 

I said quietly.

"So should you."

"But we're still on the phone."

"Because I don't want to hang up yet."

"Neither do I."

We stayed like that. Talking about silly things. Our favorite cartoons. Our worst experiences . The best food we'd eaten. He told me about how he once ran into a glass door thinking it was open. I told him about the time I spilled coffee on a guy's laptop in college and pretended I didn't see it.

He laughed. I laughed harder.

And somewhere between that laughter and the lulls in the conversation, something shifted.

"I'm glad we met, Shivangi."

"Even with all the pain and blood and burned pancakes?"

"Especially with the burned pancakes,"

 he said softly.

This time, it was my silence that spoke volumes.

And before we ended the call, he said, 

"Let's actually get that coffee. This week."

"I'll think about it."

"You'll say yes."

He wasn't wrong.

I didn't send another message that night.

But I thought of him while I fell asleep.

Samarth's POV

I knew the call was a risk. I knew it when I dialed her number, heart thudding in my throat like a teenager.

But hearing her voice?

It was worth it.

She laughed. Teased me. Challenged me. And somehow, it all felt... right. Like this was exactly how it was meant to be.

I couldn't tell her the real reason I called. That the apartment was too quiet without her. That my bed, big as it was, felt empty. That I kept checking my phone like a fool.

But when she said she was going to ask me for coffee?

Yeah. That sealed something.

She was thinking about me, too.

When the call ended, I stared at my ceiling, unable to sleep.

I didn't know where this was going yet.

But I knew I didn't want it to end.