Rain lingered for three more days, long enough that it became part of the city's rhythm—steady, patient, indifferent. The world went on: lectures resumed, the cafeteria smelled of wet paper and coffee again, and campus life swallowed the memory of scandal the way soil swallows water.
But silence didn't erase; it only buried things until you pressed too hard on the ground.
Meera spent the first week pretending not to notice how empty her phone was. No messages from Aarav, no quiet pings that told her he was still circling her orbit. She hadn't realized how much she'd trained her body to listen for him until the absence of that sound started echoing in her bones.
Everyone treated her carefully, as if she were glass that might still cut. Priya hovered between wanting to talk about it and refusing to say his name. Professors offered polite nods. The gossip had already moved on to other subjects—someone's thesis, someone's breakup—but Meera could feel the ghost of those whispers every time she crossed the hallway.
At night, when the lights went out and the world slowed to the heartbeat of the ceiling fan, she thought about what freedom had actually bought her: peace, maybe. Or maybe just the dull ache of no longer having something to push against.
One afternoon she found herself in the library, the farthest corner where the sun pooled in pale squares. She sat by the window, camera in hand, snapping quiet photos of people who didn't know they were being caught—pages turning, hair falling across faces, small gestures that made time seem kind again.
The shutter clicked softly, familiar comfort. But halfway through, she lowered the camera. For a second she imagined a shadow behind the glass—tall, still, the shape of someone who had once filled every silence. The vision evaporated before she could decide if it was memory or longing.
"Still working?" a voice asked behind her.
She turned to find Professor Desai, head of the art department, smiling faintly. "We were all impressed at the exhibit," he said. "You handled things well."
"I didn't handle anything," Meera said honestly. "I just waited for it to stop hurting."
The professor nodded, as though he understood more than he could admit. "Pain is only interesting when you turn it into art," he said, and moved on.
She looked at her camera again. The reflection in the lens stared back—hair messy, eyes tired, a small tremor at the corner of her mouth. It was a face she didn't recognize entirely. Maybe that was the point.
Later that evening, she walked past the building where Aarav had last stood. The hallway smelled of rain and bleach. His locker was empty now; the label peeled off, leaving only the faint mark of adhesive on metal.
She reached out, ran her fingers over the residue. A ridiculous gesture, maybe, but she needed to touch something that proved he had existed here, that all of it hadn't just been a fever dream with consequences.
Her phone buzzed once. An unknown number.She hesitated before opening the message.
Unknown: Don't let them make you smaller.—A.M.
The initials hit harder than the words. She stared at the screen until the letters blurred, unsure if the tremor in her hand was relief or anger.
That night she couldn't sleep. She got up, walked barefoot to the balcony, and let the drizzle bead against her skin. The city lights flickered across puddles, turning everything into layered reflections.
For weeks she had wanted silence. Now that it was here, it felt less like peace and more like distance stretched too far. The strange part was how much she still felt watched—not in the old way, not with fear—but in the quiet sense that someone out there still knew when she looked up.
She whispered into the night, not expecting an answer, "You said I'd see you in everything."
The rain hissed softly in reply.