Siri's POV
Until now, he watched me.
Quietly. Patiently. Lovingly.
Every time I laughed too loud at something stupid on my phone, he was there—just on the edge of my peripheral vision. His gaze never demanding, never claiming anything. Just… present. Like he didn't want to intrude but couldn't look away either.
He never interrupted. Never asked why I laughed, or what meme I found so funny. But I knew now that he listened—even then. That patient silence of his held a strange warmth.
Not obsession. Not intensity. Just… presence. As though he had been holding his breath for years, waiting for the moment I'd finally turn my head and see him watching. Like someone praying not for miracles, but just to be noticed.
And he knew things.
Things I never remembered telling him.
That I preferred dark chocolate over milk—because milk chocolate made me feel like a child again, and I didn't like feeling small. That I hated raisins in cookies because they reminded me of all the times life tricked me into thinking something sweet was coming—only for it to be a letdown. That my favourite ice cream was Butterscotch from that tiny shop tucked in the lane behind our old tuition centre—and yes, he even remembered the brand.
He remembered the way I used to tug at my left sleeve when I was anxious. A small habit I never thought anyone noticed. Not even me, most days.
And I had no idea.
Not even a clue.
That Bhargav—the boy who used to argue with me over the remote, who once dramatically declared that pineapple on pizza was a "culinary sin," the same boy who used to call me a "bookworm with attitude"—had been quietly collecting fragments of me all along.
Not to use against me. Not to hold over me. But to understand me. To see me.
I still remember the way he looked at me that night on the terrace. The moonlight was dull, and yet something in his eyes shone with terrifying clarity.
He'd said quietly, "Someone rejected me without hearing my heart out."
I had laughed then. A dry, hollow sound. "Was she stupid?"
He hadn't answered. Just looked at me. And for a fleeting second, something in my chest twisted.
I thought he was talking about someone else.
But now I know.
He meant me.
And that guilt… it doesn't stab. It doesn't scream.
It seeps.
Like slow rain soaking into dry earth—filling every memory, every moment I never paid attention to. Every fight I brushed off. Every silence I didn't think to question.
He used to argue with me. So often. Over petty things. TV shows. Notes. Music volume. Even how I peeled oranges. I used to think he just didn't like me.
But maybe… he just didn't know how to be near me.
He was fifteen. I was eighteen. I was already halfway into college, carrying heartbreak and responsibilities like mismatched baggage. He was a quiet storm, not yet ready to speak. Not with words. Not with clarity. And I never asked.
All this time, I was the reason behind his first heartbreak—the kind that comes quietly, without dramatic exits or grand denials. Just silence. And aching. And unanswered "what ifs."
I didn't know he stood in corners, watching me dance in the rain that day at our family trip to Araku. I didn't know he had memorized my favourite flavours just because I once casually mentioned them while fighting over which ice cream to order.
I didn't know I was his first love.
But now… now, after everything—after the wreckage that was Abhi, after the hollow nights spent staring at ceilings and trying to piece together my worth from broken mirrors—he's still here.
Steady. Quiet. Close.
Still watching… but this time, just a little closer.
He gave me space.
He never barged in.
Not even when I shut myself off from everyone. Not even when I became a ghost of myself. He was always there. A silent pulse in the background of my healing.
And now, I want to give him something.
Not as repayment. Not out of guilt. But because I finally see him.
I want to give him my attention. My curiosity. My time.
And—maybe, just maybe—my heart. Even if it's just quietly, like a whisper slipping through cracks.
I want to know what makes him laugh like a child. The kind of laughter that breaks the quiet boy facade he wears like armour.
I want to ask, "What songs do you play when you're too sad to sleep?"
I want to see the inside of his world. The corners of his soul he hides when people look too closely.
And I want to understand why he fought with me back then.
And why, even when he had the chance, he never tried to get closer.
Maybe it wasn't indifference.
Maybe it was fear.
Or maybe—just maybe—it was restraint. The kind born out of deep, aching love.
I remember asking him recently, "Why do you never say what you feel, Bhargav?"
He had paused. Looked away. Then murmured,
"Because I never thought I deserved to be heard by you."
That shattered something in me.
Because all these years, I thought he was silent by choice. I never knew silence could be shaped by fear.
I want to figure it all out now.
For him. For us. For the time I lost not knowing how much I meant to him.
And I will.
Because maybe—just maybe—I owe him more than I ever realised.
I want to know—
Why did he fight so much?
Why did he pull away whenever I got too close?
Why did he watch me cry but never hold me?
And why, after everything, did he stay?
Not beside me. But behind me. A silent safety net.
Always ready to catch me if I ever fell.
And now… now I want to fall into him. Willingly.
Not because I'm broken.
Not because I need to be saved.
But because he was never the storm. He was the shelter.
And maybe—just maybe—my heart is finally ready to come home.
Bhargav's POV
I took the stairs two at a time, my palms sweating slightly around the small box of dark chocolates. The anticipation thrummed through me, a nervous energy that buzzed in the pit of my stomach. I didn't even check if they had melted. They probably had. But she wouldn't care. She'd laugh and eat them anyway, like she always did.
But this wasn't the usual flutter I felt. This wasn't the excitement of seeing someone I liked, of stepping into an evening where the air felt lighter and everything seemed to hum with possibility.
No.
This was fear.
Fear of what might happen when I faced her. Because days ago, I'd fought with Abhi. The person she once trusted. The one who broke her. And I'd been involved. Not directly. Not intentionally. But enough.
Enough to make her doubt me.
What if she thinks I betrayed her? What if she believes I gave him her details, knowing how badly it could hurt her? That I was just another selfish man playing with her heart?
I wouldn't blame her if she thought that way. I'd have doubts too.
So when I stepped onto the terrace and saw her waiting, not just present but waiting—my chest lightened. A rush of relief flooded me. She was here. She was still here. Her smile, warm and unchanged, greeted me, and for a split second, everything inside me stilled.
She was close.
She was still here. Still smiling. Still looking at me as if there were no barriers between us.
Her shoulder brushed against mine as I sat down beside her, and the slight contact sent a shiver through me. It was almost casual, but it felt like a spark in the air between us. The breeze stirred her hair, pulling it free from its neatness, but she didn't seem to mind. Her eyes drifted between the sky and me, but all of her presence was focused here. Now.
"Indu's phone died again," she muttered, glancing up at the sky. "This time mid-conversation. Amma thinks it's cursed."
I chuckled, the sound escaping from me before I could control it. "Maybe it's allergic to drama."
She grinned. "Poor phone didn't stand a chance."
She laughed, a soft, melodious sound that sent a warmth through me. It wasn't just the sound. It was the feeling that came with it, like the warmth of sunlight on a cool day, simple and real.
We spent the next few minutes talking about trivial things. College assignments. The strange habits of professors. Her new colleague who insisted on giving unsolicited life advice. The cat that had scratched her foot last week. All of it was light, almost too light, but I didn't mind. I didn't want to dive into the heavier emotions just yet.
It felt easy. Too easy. Like we hadn't hurt each other. Like I hadn't been part of something that could've broken her trust.
But maybe that's what forgiveness looked like—unspoken at first.
The sky began to shift. The breeze turned cooler, and the first heavy drops of rain splattered onto the ground around us.
Without thinking, I stood up. "Let's go back," I said, instinctively reaching for her arm, trying to pull her toward the door.
But she didn't move. Instead, she turned her gaze to me, her eyes gleaming with something I couldn't quite name.
And then, without warning, she stepped into the rain.
To be continued...