A week slipped by, though for him it felt much longer. Every day, the same
ritual repeated itself—unlocking his phone, staring at her name in the
contacts, his thumb hovering over the screen before retreating again. The
number was there, the possibility was there, but courage? That seemed to vanish
the moment he needed it most.
His friends noticed the change in him. Rahul and Riya had known him since
the first year—two constants in a world that often felt uncertain. They knew
his history too, the heartbreak he never fully spoke of, the way it had left
him cautious and bruised. They were in love themselves, their bond obvious in
the smallest gestures—sharing a plate of pakoras, laughing at jokes no one else
understood.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky in tired shades of
orange, the three of them found themselves at their usual tea stall. The place
was crowded with students, the air filled with the aroma of ginger and
cardamom, the clinking of glasses like background music to their lives
Rahul leaned back on the bench, eyeing him with a half-smile. "Bhai, how
long do you plan on staring at her name without pressing send? A week? A month?
Or the rest of your life?"
He avoided Rahul's gaze, sipping his tea as though it held answers. "It's
not that simple."
Riya, ever softer than Rahul, tilted her head. "It is simple. You like her.
She asked for your number. What's stopping you?"
He sighed. "You both know what happened last time. I can't… I can't go
through that again. The rejection, the emptiness afterward—it broke something
in me. I barely put myself back together."
Rahul's expression softened, though his voice stayed firm. "But this isn't
your past. This is now. And now you have a chance. Don't let fear choke it
before it even begins."
Riya reached for his hand across the table. "We've seen you these past few
days. There's life in your eyes again, the kind we haven't seen in so long. She
brought that back. Don't throw it away because of ghosts from yesterday".
He looked between them, the couple who made love look so natural, so
possible. Their words sank into him like the warmth of chai on a cold night.
Maybe they were right. Maybe silence was the real failure.
For the first time, he let himself imagine it—pressing send, hearing her
reply, starting something that could either heal him or break him all over
again.
And as the streetlights flickered on above the tea stall, he wondered: was
it finally time to take the chance?