The drive stretched longer than either of them had anticipated.
Highway curves gave way to quieter roads, the city thinning out behind them until the world felt wider, slower. The afternoon light softened as it filtered through trees lining the road, shadows sliding across the dashboard in lazy patterns. The kind of time that didn't ask to be counted—only felt.
Soft instrumental music played in the background. No lyrics. Nothing demanding attention. Just sound that blended into motion, into breath, into the steady hum of the engine.
Somewhere along the way, Sagnik stopped talking.
Aanya noticed it only when the silence beside her settled too deeply to ignore.
She spared him a glance.
His head rested against the window now, eyes closed, lashes still against his cheeks. His shoulders—usually tense, usually carrying something unsaid—had finally eased. Sleep hadn't taken him abruptly; it had crept in quietly, like he'd allowed it after holding himself awake for too long.
For once, his mind wasn't running ahead of him.
She looked back at the road.
Time slipped past without announcing itself. The sky shifted almost imperceptibly, blue paling into softer hues. The air changed too—cooler, heavier. And beneath it all, faint at first and then unmistakable, came the sound of water.
The road narrowed. The trees thickened.
When the car slowed, the music faded into silence.
Aanya didn't move right away.
She let the engine idle, hands resting loosely on the steering wheel, taking in the quiet. The place felt different—like it existed just outside the world they'd left behind. Mist hovered low, catching stray sunlight. Green stretched endlessly ahead, alive and breathing.
Only then did she turn toward him.
He was still asleep.
Not restless. Not half-aware. This was unguarded, peaceful. His head leaned slightly toward the window, jaw relaxed in a way she hadn't seen in days. For the first time since everything had grown complicated, he looked… calm.
Her gaze lingered.
She traced the familiar lines of his face without touching—his brow, the slope of his nose, the soft parting of his lips with each quiet breath. For a moment, she forgot where they were. Forgot why they had come.
She broke her gaze and looked outside again.
The sound she'd noticed earlier was clearer now—water, powerful and constant, somewhere close.
Beautiful.
And yet, her eyes drifted back to him.
She hadn't realized how long she'd been looking until—
"Are you done scanning my face?"
Her breath hitched.
His eyes were still closed, but the corner of his mouth twitched with something dangerously close to a smile.
She scoffed softly, recovering. "You were asleep."
"Was," he corrected, opening his eyes slowly and turning toward her.
"Until I felt someone staring like they were about to diagnose me."
She rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. "Get up," she said lightly.
"We're here." He stretched, glancing outside—and then froze.
"Where did you bring me" He paused and then added, "Is this where you murder me and sell my organs?"
She smiled despite herself. "I drove 220 kilometers. Obviously I'm emotionally attached now. That would be inefficient."
"Good," he said. "I was hoping we'd at least eat first."
They stepped out together. Not separately. Together.
The air was cooler here, brushing against bare skin like it knew better than to linger. She walked ahead, then slowed without thinking. He caught up just as naturally, their shoulders nearly touching.
Not touching.
Almost.
She thought, distantly, that this was how memories were made.
Not in grand gestures or declarations that demanded to be remembered—but in moments like this. In pauses. In almosts. In places that felt too right to ever have been meant to last.
Water thundered somewhere ahead, steady and alive, mist curling through the air like breath. He said something—she didn't catch what—but she smiled anyway, because it didn't matter. Because this version of them spoke in glances and half-sentences, in shared silences that felt intimate without trying.
If this was a dream, it was cruel for feeling so real.
And if it was real—
she wasn't sure what would hurt more: waking up from it,
or remembering it later, knowing exactly how it ended.