Siri's POV
The days passed softly, like slow waves brushing against the shore—gentle, but consistent. The kind of rhythm that made you forget the chaos that came before. And with each one, what Bhargav and I shared began to settle into something… quietly solid.
There were no sudden fireworks, no cinematic declarations under pouring rain. Just… a shift. A calm evolution. Like how the sun rises unnoticed, and only later do you realize its warmth has filled the whole room.
It wasn't a secret anymore—at least, not to us.
And definitely not to our families.
Amma had developed a new habit of watching me from the kitchen window. She'd time it perfectly—just when I'd descend the stairs with a too-obvious smile, brushing nonexistent lint off my kurti, checking my hair in the mirror that I usually ignored. Her eyes would follow me, and if I dared look back, she'd pretend to be stirring the sambar like she hadn't just witnessed my whole emotional state in one glance.
Dad, on the other hand, had perfected the art of The Eyebrow. He'd lift it subtly every time I rushed through dinner, skipping second servings just to go upstairs.
And Indu?
Oh, Indu didn't need to say anything. That girl had mastered the smirk of a hundred meanings. Every time she passed by me, she'd throw that look—the one that said, "I know." Like she was the keeper of secrets I hadn't even admitted to myself yet.
But the thing was—I didn't mind. Not their stares. Not their silence. Not even Indu's teasing.
Because I was… happy.
And that was new.
Terrifyingly new.
Until that one conversation.
It was the night before his college reopened. The terrace had cooled under the brush of the evening breeze, and we sat in our usual spot—side by side, legs drawn up, the city lights glittering beneath us like fallen stars. He had brought us a box of orange-flavored popsicles from the freezer, and we sat quietly for a while, just enjoying the cold sweetness and each other's presence.
But I could tell something was off.
He kept adjusting his wristwatch. Checking the time. Looking up at the sky, then back down. His fingers tapped lightly against his thigh, restless, like his thoughts weren't sitting still.
I leaned my shoulder slightly into his. "You're fidgeting."
He looked at me, startled, then exhaled a quiet chuckle. "Am I?"
"Like a squirrel on espresso."
That made him smile—barely. But it faded too fast.
"I have to tell you something," he said after a moment, his voice quieter now, as if he was afraid of breaking something between us.
I tilted my head, heart tightening just a little. "What?"
His eyes stayed on the moon, like it could help him find the right words. "College starts tomorrow. Final year."
"Oh," I breathed. "Already?"
"Yeah. Time really flew, huh?"
I nodded, even though something in me had sunk a little. We'd known this was coming, but hearing it out loud made it real. Made it immediate.
Then came the silence. Not our usual kind—the good kind that stretched like a blanket over two people who understood each other without speaking. No, this silence felt… uncertain. Hesitant.
He cleared his throat. "I might not be able to come to the terrace every night."
There it was.
He turned to look at me, eyes searching mine, apologetic already. "Just Saturdays for sure. The rest… I'll try if I can. But I have to be up early. Lectures, projects… it's gonna be packed."
I smiled. I nodded, even. "That's okay. Makes sense."
But it wasn't okay.
Not really.
The terrace wasn't just a place anymore. It had become sacred. A space where silence turned into understanding. Where long looks meant more than words. Where laughter softened the past, and the night held our secrets like stars in a jar.
It wasn't just about being together.
It was us.
Our rhythm. Our unspoken place.
And now… it would shrink. Or worse, fade.
He noticed. Of course, he did. He always noticed.
"Hey," he said gently, leaning in to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the pads of his fingers brushing my cheek. "I'll still come whenever I can. You know I will."
"I know," I said softly, trying to let my voice convince the part of me that was already aching. "It's just… I'll miss this."
His hand slipped into mine, fingers intertwining like a promise. "Me too."
The silence that followed was heavier now. Not bad—just… full. Like it carried everything we weren't saying.
I looked at him then, really looked at him—at the curve of his jaw, the lashes casting shadows under his eyes, the way his lips curved when he wasn't trying to hide how he felt.
"You're really going to be busy, huh?" I asked, more to keep talking than anything else.
He nodded. "Yeah. Varsha and I… we're in the same batch again."
That name. That weight. But he said it with no emotion, no lingering shadow. Just a fact.
I didn't respond immediately. I traced circles on the back of his hand with my thumb. "Do you think she'll make things awkward?"
He looked at me. "Not if I don't let her."
A beat of quiet passed before he added, "She doesn't matter anymore."
I looked away. "I know."
But it still made something inside me stir.
He gently squeezed my fingers. "You're not her, Siri. Don't carry her mistakes."
I nodded slowly. "And you're not Abhi either."
His mouth twitched—pain, understanding, regret. "We've both been through a lot, haven't we?"
"Yeah," I whispered.
He tilted his head toward me, voice softer than I'd ever heard it. "But we found something good in the middle of it."
"Did we?" I asked, a playful glint in my eye.
He grinned. "I mean, you still annoy me sometimes."
"Likewise."
"But," he added, drawing my hand to his, "I wouldn't change a thing."
I swallowed past the lump rising in my throat. "Even the fights?"
"Especially the fights. That's where all the honesty came out."
I laughed, quiet and shaky. "You're really turning poetic now."
"Don't get used to it. I blame the moonlight."
The breeze picked up then, brushing through my hair, rustling the leaves behind us. The city hummed below, cars passing like whispers, but up here, we felt separate. Suspended.
I leaned into him just a little. "Don't forget to come on Saturdays."
"I won't," he promised.
"You better not. I'll climb down and drag you up here if I have to."
He chuckled. "That actually sounds terrifying."
"It should."
We sat like that for a long while, letting the night hold us. I memorized the way his arm felt resting against mine, the scent of his cologne fading into the wind, the way he kept glancing at me like I was more interesting than the stars.
Because I knew.
Life was about to speed up again.
And I didn't know how many nights like this we had left.
But for now, I had this one.
And it was enough.
To be continued...