It had been three days.
No messages.
No footsteps at the chai tapri.
No smile beneath the hoodie.
Aanya kept replaying the moment — Vihaan's voice saying "I might be moving to Mumbai", the way her heart had clenched like a fist around glass.
He had meant something. She knew that. Maybe too much, too quickly. Maybe more than she had allowed anyone to mean in a long time.
And now he was vanishing, just like everyone else.
"I let myself fall. Kya mujhe nahi girna chahiye tha?"
("I let myself fall. Was I not supposed to?")
She whispered this to herself in the mirror, her voice smaller than she remembered.
That evening, the mural stared back at her again.
She picked up the brush and painted a cloud over two of the stars.
Then stopped.
Memories kept flashing like film negatives —
• His laugh when she said coffee drinkers had secrets.
• The umbrella they shared on their first day.
• The way he said "Roz."
She opened her phone.
There were no new messages.
But there was one unsent message she'd written in her Notes app the night after the fight:
"I didn't need you to stay, Vihaan. I just needed to matter enough that you wanted to tell me."
She almost deleted it.
Instead, she added something new:
"I'm scared too. But maybe we're just two people who got scared at the same time."
Still, she didn't send it.
That night, as she passed the metro station — not planning to get on, just walking by — she saw him.
Vihaan.
Standing by the same pole inside the coach of a halted metro. Hoodie. Glasses. And hope in his eyes that flickered brighter than the train lights.
He saw her.
She didn't move.
He stepped off the train.
They stood five feet apart. Neither spoke. Not for a moment.
Then Vihaan finally said,
"Tum ab bhi bura maan rahi ho?"
("Are you still upset?")
Aanya exhaled. "Main ab bhi confuse hoon."
("I'm still confused.")
He nodded. "Main bhi."
("Me too.")
"But… I think I'd rather be confused with you than clear without you."
He swallowed, words caught behind his smile.
"Tum chaho toh main ruk jaaun," he said softly.
("If you want, I'll stay.")
She stepped closer. Not touching, just enough for her voice to reach him.
"Nahi, Vihaan."
His heart dropped.
"Main chaahti hoon tum jao…"
("I want you to go…")
He looked at her, broken.
"…aur sapne poore karo. But come back. Jab ready ho. Jab dono ho sakein — tum bhi aur main bhi."
("…and chase your dreams. But come back. When you're ready. When we both can be — you and me.")
Vihaan felt his chest cave and expand at the same time.
He took her hand, for the first time — properly. Not brushing fingers. Not maybe.
A touch with a promise.
"Tab tak?" he asked.
("Until then?")
She smiled. "Main roz aungi."
("I'll come every day.")
And for the first time, the mural in her heart didn't feel unfinished.