The notification arrived at 11:42 p.m.
Meera noticed it only because she had already checked the time twice—an old habit resurfacing without permission. The phone lay face down on the desk, charging, a thin vibration against wood. She didn't flip it immediately. She knew that particular silence too well: the kind that pretended to be empty while holding something sharp.
When she finally turned the screen over, the preview was minimal.
Unknown Sender
(1 unread message)
No name. No subject line.
Just a timestamp.
Her pulse didn't spike the way it used to. That in itself felt like progress—measurable, almost clinical. She inhaled, slow and deliberate, the way she taught her students to breathe before pressing the shutter. You don't rush the moment. You don't steal it either.
She didn't open the message.
The studio was quiet, save for the low hum of the air conditioner and the faint ticking of the wall clock. Prints from the afternoon's shoot lay spread across the table—grainy, imperfect, honest. She liked them that way. They didn't ask for approval. They didn't perform.
She gathered the prints into a neat stack and slid them into a folder. Routine first. Curiosity later. That was the rule she was trying to build.
The phone buzzed again. Same thread.
No additional text.
She turned the phone face down.
It was raining—not the dramatic kind, just a persistent drizzle that softened edges and made the city feel temporarily forgiving. Meera stepped onto the balcony with a mug of tea and leaned against the railing, letting the cool air press against her skin.
She wondered, distantly, if Aarav was somewhere doing the same thing—standing still, watching rain, choosing restraint over habit. The thought arrived without invitation and left without demand. That mattered.
Her phone buzzed a third time.
This time, she picked it up.
Still unread. Still unopened.
She thumbed the screen, hovering just above the message. The glass reflected her face back at her—older, steadier, eyes no longer searching for permission.
You don't owe anyone a response, Priya's voice echoed in her head.
Silence is also a choice.
Meera locked the phone and placed it back on the desk, farther away this time.
Sleep came late and shallow.
She dreamed of blinking cursors and open doors that led nowhere. In the dream, she stood in a hallway lined with photographs—some hers, some not—and every frame she touched dissolved into light before she could decide whether to keep it.
When she woke, the phone was still there. Still unread.
Morning brought clarity the way it often did: without drama, without mercy. She showered, dressed, packed her bag. The phone remained on the desk until the last moment.
Before leaving, she picked it up.
The message count hadn't changed.
She considered deleting the thread entirely. That would be decisive. Clean. A hard boundary. But something in her resisted finality disguised as strength. She didn't want to erase the past anymore. She wanted to outgrow it.
So instead, she archived the conversation.
Not deleted.
Not opened.
Just… placed somewhere it couldn't interrupt her day.
At the café near campus, sunlight filtered through steamed-up glass. Students filled tables with laptops and half-finished assignments. The world felt busy in a way that didn't require her attention.
She ordered tea. Sat by the window. Watched people pass.
Her phone stayed in her bag.
For the first time in a long while, the absence of a reply didn't feel like loss. It felt like a decision holding its shape.
Outside, the rain eased into mist.
Meera lifted her camera, framed the empty chair across from her, and pressed the shutter.
Click.
Some messages didn't need to be read to be answered.