Author’s POV

The day after the phone call felt… unfinished.

Shivangi woke up on the couch, a blanket draped over her legs, her journal resting loosely against her chest. Her body ached from the awkward position, but her mind was already somewhere else — reaching, grasping for him. Not the man who had wrapped her in his warmth just hours ago, but the one who hadn’t messaged her since.

She sat up slowly, brushing hair from her face.

Her heart pulsed against her ribs as her gaze found the coffee table.

There it was — her phone. Untouched. Silent.

She reached for it. One swipe, and the screen lit up. No notifications.

Her fingers moved with muscle memory, opening the chat with him.

The voice note she’d sent — her vulnerable, sleepy voice reading lines from her journal — still showed grey ticks.

Her breath caught.

He hadn’t even heard it.

She placed the phone down, pressing her hands against her face. It wasn’t about the message, not really. It was the silence. The distance. The hollow space where reassurance should have been.

Maybe he was busy. Maybe something urgent came up. Maybe he didn’t know how to respond.

Or maybe he just didn’t care the way she hoped he did.

She got up, restless, pacing toward the window, arms wrapping around herself as if that could keep the doubt from seeping in.

She stared outside, unfocused, her mind looping back to the call. The way his tone had shifted. The quiet pause when she asked him that question. The way he hung up — too quickly, too cleanly.

Her stomach twisted.

And just then — a buzz.

Her hands fumbled for the phone. Screen on. One message. Then another.

Samarth:
I just listened to your voice note.
You sounded calm… honest. It felt like a part of you I hadn’t seen before. And I should have been there.

Her pulse spiked. Fingers hovered, waiting.

Then the next message came.

Samarth:
I know I should have told you things earlier. I’m sorry, bache . Take your time. Let me know whenever you’re ready to talk.
I’m here. I’m ready to give you every answer you want.

She stared at the words. A lump formed in her throat.

It wasn’t a grand apology. But it was something real.

Not deflection. Not avoidance.

Just honesty.

Still, something inside her remained cautious — like a bruise being gently pressed.

She didn’t reply. Not yet.

Because even though his words were sincere, and maybe even healing, her heart was still processing the silence that had come before them.

The silence that hurt more than anything he could have said.

So she held the phone close to her chest, breathed in deeply, and whispered to herself—

"Let me feel this first. Then I’ll decide if I’m ready to forgive."

And for now, that was enough.

By late afternoon, Shivangi could no longer carry the silence alone.
It had been coiling tighter inside her — the ache of waiting, the confusion, the bitterness of half-spoken truths. She needed to talk to someone. Someone who knew her heart before Samarth ever existed in it.

Her thumb hovered for a moment over Amaira’s name. Then tapped.
The phone rang.

“Shivuuu!”

Amaira’s voice crackled through the speaker, warm, familiar, grounding.

Shivangi smiled faintly. “Hi…”

There was a pause.

“You okay?”

Amaira asked softly, already sensing the tremble behind her voice.
Shivangi breathed out.

“Not really. Can I vent?”

“You’re not even allowed to ask. Just talk, I’m all yours.”

Shivangi curled into the couch, staring blankly at the dark TV screen.

“I called him last night… and I overheard a woman talking to him. Her name was Ananya.”

Her voice dropped.

“She flirted. Teased. Like they had history… unfinished history.”

Amaira was silent for a moment.

“And Samarth?”

“He asked her to leave. Said she was drunk. I didn’t hear anything wrong, Amaira. But… I didn’t know she existed.”

“So it’s not what he said. It’s the fact that it came out of nowhere?”

Shivangi nodded, knowing Amaira would feel it through the silence.

“I felt like an outsider in his life, Amu. Like I’ve read chapter twenty of his story, but I have no idea what happened in chapter one. And worse... I don’t know if I’m even allowed to ask about it.”

Amaira exhaled.

“Of course you are. You care about him. That doesn’t make you clingy or crazy. It makes you real.”

“But I don’t want to come off as insecure,”

Shivangi whispered.

“He didn’t do anything. He set a boundary. But still… it shook me.”

“That’s because you’ve started building something with him, and now a stranger walked in and rattled the foundation. That doesn’t make you weak, it makes you invested.”

Shivangi’s lips quivered. “I sent him a voice note afterward. Something personal. From my journal. He didn’t even open it until this morning.
And when he replied… he didn’t deny anything, he just… said he’s ready to talk whenever I am.”

Amaira’s voice softened. “That’s something, Shivangi.”

“But is it enough?”

Amaira hesitated, then asked gently, “Do you love him?”

A beat.

“Terrifyingly so,”

Shivangi admitted, her voice cracking.

“And that’s what scares me. That I’ll give my heart to someone who has rooms in his life I’ll never be allowed to enter.”

Amaira’s tone turned firm.

“Then knock on those doors. Ask the hard questions. You don’t have to walk away — not yet. Not when he’s willing to answer.”

“What if I don’t like what I hear?”

Amaira’s reply came without pause.

“Then at least you’ll know you walked through this with open eyes. But Shivangi… don’t shut him out for not being perfect. He’s human. So are you. Love deserves a chance to explain itself.”

Shivangi exhaled shakily.

“I’m scared.”

“I know,”

Amaira whispered.

“But you’re also brave. And brave girls ask the questions, even with trembling voices.”

Shivangi closed her eyes.

Maybe she wasn’t alone in this mess after all.

Meanwhile, at Samarth’s flat...

Samarth paced his kitchen floor for what felt like the hundredth time, his fingers twitching around his phone. He had typed a dozen messages to Shivangi — none of which made it past the draft stage. Everything felt too formal. Too vague. Too late.

He needed clarity. Or maybe just someone who could tell him he wasn’t completely screwing this up.

He dialed a number he hadn’t in weeks.

“Ishita?”

His voice was low, almost uncertain.

“Sammy?”

she answered, surprised.

“Isn’t it surgery day?”

“No, it got rescheduled. I... I needed to talk.”

“Okay,”

she said, instantly switching to sister mode.

“What’s wrong?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled.

“It’s Shivangi.”

“Ah,”

Ishita hummed knowingly.

“What happened?”

“She called me last night. Accidentally. The call picked up in my pocket while Ananya was here.”

Ishita froze. “Ananya?”

“She was drunk. Showed up without warning. I told her to leave — I swear I didn’t invite her. But Shivangi heard her voice. And only that. Not me asking her to leave. Not me drawing the line.”

Ishita didn’t speak right away.

“What did Shivangi say?”

“She hasn’t said anything. But I can feel it. That silence… it’s heavy. She thinks I’m hiding something.”

He leaned back against the kitchen counter, staring at the fridge like it could give him answers.

“Well, are you?” Ishita asked softly.

“No,”

he said quickly.
“But… I haven’t told her everything either.”

“Then maybe that’s why she’s spiraling, Samarth. She walked into something mid-scene. You can’t blame her for wondering what the rest of the script looked like.”

“I’m scared, Di,”

he admitted, the crack in his voice surprising even him.

“I’m scared I’ll lose her. And I don’t know if I can take that.”

“Then talk to her,”

she said gently.

“Not to convince her. But to show her. To tell her the truth. All of it.”

He let out a slow breath.

“You don’t get it. Shivangi’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. She’s... solid. She listens when the rest of the world talks over me. She challenges me. She feels things deeply. She’s... home, Di.”

Ishita’s voice softened.

“Sounds like you’re in love.”

“I am,” he whispered. “And not just in the easy ways. I’m in love with her mess, her walls, the way she reads her thoughts out loud like they scare her. I’ve never wanted to protect something so much in my life.”

Ishita smiled on the other end.

“Then don’t run from this.”

“What if she walks away?”

“Then at least you let her see all of you. The part that messed up. The part that didn’t know how to say things at the right time. And the part that’s trying now.”

Samarth’s voice trembled.

“She deserves better than silence.”

“She deserves you, Sammy,”

Ishita said firmly.

“But the whole you. Even the parts that didn’t get it right the first time.”

He looked down at his phone.

This time, he didn’t delete the message.

Night time

Shivangi sat by her window, legs curled under her, her journal resting closed beside her. The city shimmered in the distance — golden and distant, like a dream she couldn’t touch tonight. Her fingers traced lazy circles on the windowsill, her heart weighed down by the silence between her and Samarth.

The wind caressed her cheek, but it couldn’t soothe the restlessness inside her.

Her phone buzzed once.

The screen lit up.

Samarth: Can we talk? I’m here. Always.

She stared at it, her breath hitching.

He hadn’t flooded her with paragraphs. He hadn’t defended. Just a sentence. But in that sentence, there was something raw. Open. Waiting.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.

Then she typed, quietly.

Shivangi: I’m listening.

Seconds passed. Then a minute.

Her heartbeat was loud — too loud — as the next message arrived.

Samarth: I know I should’ve told you everything before. About Ananya. About my past. About the things I wasn’t ready to say out loud. And I know hearing her voice the way you did must’ve felt like someone pulled the floor from beneath you.
But believe me, Shivangi, if I had known what that silence would cost you — us — I would’ve told you everything the moment I realized how much you matter to me.
You have no idea what you’ve become to me.
You make my silence feel less lonely. You listen like you’re not trying to fix me, just trying to see me. And you do. You see through everything — and that both terrifies and heals me.
I’m not proud of the parts of my past that still show up uninvited. But I am proud of the man I am when I’m with you.
So here I am. I won’t run. I won’t hide. Ask me anything — everything. I’m ready to be fully seen by you, even if it scares me. Because losing you would be the only thing I won’t be able to survive.

Shivangi felt a tight knot in her chest loosen — just slightly.

The message didn’t fix everything.

But it held space for her pain. It didn’t justify. It didn’t rush.

It offered.

Offered answers. Honesty. Effort.

She blinked back tears.

This was the kind of message that didn’t ask her to forgive — not yet — but to trust that the other person was showing up, really showing up.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She wasn’t ready to pour her heart out yet. But she was ready for something.

Shivangi: Thank you for saying that. I needed to hear it.
I’m still… processing. But I’m not closing the door.

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

Samarth: That’s enough for me. Take your time. I’ll be here.

Shivangi closed her eyes, phone resting on her chest.
Maybe they weren’t whole yet. But they weren’t broken either.
Not if he stayed. Not if she let him.
And tonight, that soft possibility was enough.