The bundle of freshly washed clothes sat on her desk like an ordinary thing—shirts folded with neat creases, dupattas stacked flat, the faint smell of starch clinging to the fabric. But Ananya's eyes burned on one shirt in particular, the plain white kurta with its hem slightly thicker than it should be.
Her pulse thudded in her ears.
She forced herself to sit still. To breathe. To not snatch it up in wild desperation while the echoes of her cousin's footsteps still lingered in the corridor.
Every instinct screamed at her to act fast, but fear pressed just as hard: what if she was caught? What if he had left nothing, and she risked everything for a phantom hope?
She ran her fingers along the seam, feeling the tiny ridge. Yes—something was there. Something not meant for anyone but her.
Her throat tightened. It's him. It has to be him.
The day dragged mercilessly.
Her mother entered twice, her cousin once, each time checking on her like a prisoner under guard. The laundry bundle remained untouched, lying in perfect folds as though she hadn't noticed it. Ananya pretended to read, her eyes moving over the same sentence again and again without meaning. Her mind was elsewhere, her body vibrating with the tension of waiting.
When the final bolt slid shut after dinner and the house settled into stillness, only then did she dare move.
The lamplight threw long shadows across her room. Every creak of the floorboards seemed louder than thunder as she pulled the bundle closer. Her fingers trembled as she slid the kurta free, laying it across her lap.
She bent close, inspecting the seam. There—it was hand-stitched, but not by the same tailor's hand. The thread was slightly uneven, deliberate. Her breath shuddered out.
He did this. He found me.
Her hands shook as she reached for her scissors, the small pair she used for trimming paper edges. She hesitated, listening. The house was silent but for the faint crackle of oil lamps. Her cousin's footsteps hadn't passed for over an hour.
Still, she worked carefully, easing the stitches apart one by one. The seam opened slowly, painstakingly, until something soft and folded slid free into her palm.
A scrap of paper.
Tiny, creased, the edges fraying. But alive.
Ananya clutched it to her chest, her eyes stinging. The weight of days, weeks of silence cracked inside her—here was proof that he hadn't given up, that he was still reaching for her through walls and locks and watchful eyes.
She unfolded it with trembling care.
The note
The handwriting was hurried, jagged, as though written in the dark, but every stroke carried his fire.
*"Ananya,If you're reading this, you've beaten their walls. You've outwitted the eyes that try to cage you. That's my Ananya—the one who never breaks, only bends long enough to rise again.
I found your ribbon. It burned in my hand like a promise. You haven't given up. Neither have I.
I don't care how high they build the walls or how tight they lock the doors. I will find you. Every breath I take now belongs to that vow.
If you can… leave me a sign. Anything. A mark on a page, a ribbon hidden, a word carried. I'll see it. I'll know it's you.
Hold on. Just hold on.—Riyan"*
Her vision blurred. She pressed the paper to her lips, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. Every word was him—reckless, stubborn, fierce in his devotion. Every line was a lifeline pulled tight across the abyss between them.
Her prison seemed less suffocating now. The walls no longer felt like an end, but a temporary barrier.
She curled around the note on her bed, clutching it like it could anchor her through the night. For the first time in days, her heart didn't feel hollow.
He found me.
But the danger was never far.
A sudden noise at the door—the scrape of wood, a faint shift. Her heart leapt into her throat. She stuffed the note under her pillow, pulling the blanket over herself in one swift motion.
The bolt slid slightly, then stopped. A pause. Her cousin's voice, muffled but sharp, drifted through. "Still awake?"
Her chest rose and fell too fast. She forced her voice into a sleepy murmur. "No… already asleep."
A grunt. Then the bolt slid back into place. His footsteps retreated.
Ananya exhaled shakily, every muscle trembling.
The note burned under her pillow. Precious. Dangerous. Alive.
When the silence was sure again, she pulled it back out, running her fingers over his words. And there, in the quiet, she whispered back to him, even though he couldn't hear:
"I'll send you a sign. I swear it."
Ananya hid the note inside the hollow spine of her thickest textbook, safe but close. Her lips brushed the paper one last time before she closed her eyes.
Far away, Riyan lay awake under the same moonlight, staring at the ceiling, heart racing with the gamble of whether she had found it.
Tomorrow, he would know.