The fight was over.
How? Don't ask me. It just… dissolved.
Like smoke in the air — one second heavy, the next, gone.
A few jokes, a little laughter, a "you're so dramatic" from him, and suddenly, we were fine again.
Maybe that's why I liked him.
He could turn heartbreak into humor, sadness into something that almost felt like peace.
He slept that night with a tired smile, I think, the kind that hides more than it shows.
Since it was New Year's Eve season, we started talking about resolutions.
And I don't know why, but the idea of resolutions has always made me laugh.
Like, how can anyone plan a whole year ahead when even tomorrow's mood depends on how good the chai tastes in the morning?
"Alright," he said, his voice crackling through the call, "I'm gonna drop two songs in January."
I laughed instantly. "Two songs? You can't even decide your breakfast, Akaay."
"I'll do it," he challenged. "But only if you give me time."
"Let's see," I smirked, "all the time is yours anyway."
There was a pause.
Not an awkward one, more like the kind that hums softly between two people who've said too much already.
The silence stretched, wrapped in unspoken things.
He said quietly, "You know, this time… I just want to do better."
And I wanted to say same.
But the words got stuck behind the lump in my throat.
Because "better" sounded like distance, like moving forward while I was still standing in the same place.
So I just said, "Then do it. I'll be right here, cheering."
And that night, even though the world outside was bursting into fireworks,
our little world stayed quiet, two people pretending they didn't just break and rebuild something fragile between them.
He grinned through the phone, "Alright, my next resolution, I'll go to the gym from day one."
"You'd better go," I said, trying not to laugh. "You're getting fat sitting at home."
"Huh," he shot back instantly, "you should eat more, you're getting thinner."
"Oh, please," I scoffed, "it's because my fats are getting transferred to you."
"Is that so?" he said, voice dropping just a bit, playful, but with that faint teasing warmth that made my heart skip.
"Yeah," I replied, pretending not to notice how his tone suddenly felt closer.
"Now please, go lift some weights before all my fat settles on your face."
He laughed, that genuine, carefree laugh that somehow made everything between us feel light again.
And just like that, the tension from before dissolved, replaced by that familiar rhythm we always found our way back to.
"Kriti," he said suddenly, "I see you bring a lot of parathas in your lunch these days."
"Huh? How do you notice that?" I asked, half laughing, half flustered.
He smirked. "I notice everything about everyone."
Then his voice softened. "I know when you're happy or sad, even if it's just for a split of a moment."
I blinked, taken aback. "Are you… serious?"
"Yes," he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Ah great," I sighed, pretending to roll my eyes, "now I'll have to stay conscious because of you."
He chuckled, low and teasing. "You better be."
And the way he said it?
It didn't sound like a warning.
It sounded like a promise.