It started with the dream again.
Violet ink on her fingertips. Hair clinging wet to pale cheeks. The girl stood at the edge of the rooftop—same as always—but this time, she wasn't looking at Simran.
She was looking past her.
Like she'd finally seen something she'd been waiting for.
And it broke Simran's heart.
The next morning, Simran didn't ask for permission.
She just went.
The leather notebook pressed against her chest, the one that had started it all. It wasn't warm like before.
It felt still.
The rooftop was empty. No wind, no voices, no phantom breath on her neck. Just the quiet hum of the city that had moved on without her.
Without Isha.
Simran sat down right where the crack in the railing split the skyline.
She didn't light candles. Didn't cry.
She just opened the notebook.
> "He kissed me like I wasn't allowed to exist."
"I didn't know. But I will."
She ran her fingers over the ink.
And then she whispered:
> "You existed."
"Even if no one said your name out loud. Even if he erased you first."
"Even if I didn't believe you when I should've."
Her voice cracked, but she kept going.
> "He didn't get away with it."
"He can't hurt anyone anymore."
> "Abeer is in jail now."
"They finally listened."
"They finally knew."
Her hands trembled as she placed the notebook down.
> "I'm sorry it took this long."
And she left it there. Just like that.
A grave with no flowers, but finally—acknowledged.
---
As she turned to leave, the air around her shifted.
No wind.
But warmth.
Like someone exhaled.
Like someone finally let go.
She looked over her shoulder.
And there she was.
Isha.
But not the broken girl from the dreams. Not the cold shadow in the mirror.
Just… a girl.
Standing there in her sweater, violet-stained fingers at her sides.
Their eyes met.
No hate. No fury.
Just release.
And then she smiled.
A real smile.
Soft. Human.
Then—she faded.
Gone.
---
Simran didn't realize she was crying until a thumb brushed it away.
He was there.
Not Abeer.
The boy who had stayed.
Who had listened.
Who had held her through the nightmares even when she couldn't speak.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
She nodded. And for the first time… meant it.
They stood there for a minute, side by side. No words.
Until he turned to her, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"I'm glad you see her," he said. "But I'm glad you're still you."
And when he kissed her—it wasn't like Abeer.
It wasn't rushed, forbidden, or wrong.
It was warm.
Like sunlight melting frost.
Like waking up after a long winter.
Downstairs, in the girls' washroom…
The cracked mirror had healed.
But just for a second—if someone looked closely—they might still see faint ink marks at the corner.
Like fingerprints left behind.
Not angry.
Just remembered.