The next few days passed in a blur. Not peaceful — just quiet enough to pretend things were normal. Dhruve worked, ate, slept. Repeat. The kind of mechanical rhythm that keeps you alive but not really living.
He didn't hear from Priya.And yet, every time his phone buzzed, his heart still gave that small, traitorous jump.
Most of the messages were from Anya."Did you eat?""Don't skip lunch.""You looked tired in the meeting today. Rest, okay?"
At first, her care felt warm — a small comfort in the cold mess of his life. But slowly, it started to feel like noise. Every hour, a ping. Every evening, a call. Her voice was gentle, almost too gentle, like she was trying to fill a void that wasn't hers to fill.
"Anya," he said one night after her third call, "you don't have to check in so much. I'm fine."
There was a pause. Then her quiet voice: "You always say that."
He sighed. "Because it's true."
"Then why do you sound like you don't believe yourself?"
He had no answer. Just silence. The kind that says more than words ever could.
After she hung up, he sat there staring at the dark screen. Why does she care so much? he thought. Maybe because she needed someone to fix as badly as he needed to be left alone.
He turned off the lights, laid down, and stared at the ceiling.His mind wouldn't stop replaying the same question: What if I'd never gone home that day?
It was a thought that lived in the cracks of every quiet night.If he hadn't left his phone on the table, if he hadn't gone back during lunch — maybe he'd still be happy, still stupid, still living in his comfortable illusion.
"Shit," he muttered, rubbing his face. "Maybe I'd rather have that."
He reached for his phone, wanting to scroll through something mindless, but the screen blinked with a new message — one that froze him mid-motion.
Priya.
His thumb hovered over her name. His heart kicked against his ribs.It had been weeks. Months of silence that had become a kind of uneasy peace.
The message was short."Are you okay?"
That's it. Two words. But they hit like a punch.
He laughed — a short, bitter sound. "Now you ask that?"
He typed: 'I'm fine.'Deleted it.Typed again: 'Why do you care?'Deleted that too.
He stared at the empty text box. His chest felt tight.Finally, he locked the phone and threw it on the couch.
For a while, he just sat there — torn between anger and something softer he refused to name.
But curiosity, that cruel thing, eventually won.He unlocked the phone again, re-reading the message, looking for hidden meaning in those two words. Are you okay?Maybe it was guilt. Maybe she just wanted to clear her conscience.Or maybe… maybe she missed him.
"Fuck," he whispered. "Don't start that again."
He didn't reply. But his mind did — replaying her voice, her laugh, her scent. Things that shouldn't matter anymore.
The next morning, Anya showed up at his door again, holding a paper bag."Breakfast," she said brightly. "You weren't answering calls."
Dhruve forced a smile. "You don't have to—"
"I wanted to," she interrupted. Then she frowned. "You look worse. Did you sleep?"
"Not really."
She stepped closer, searching his face. "You got a message from her, didn't you?"
His eyes widened slightly. "What?"
"Priya," she said quietly. "You always look like this when something drags you back to her."
He looked away, jaw tightening. "You're overthinking."
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You're a terrible liar, Dhruve."
He didn't respond. The silence stretched. Finally, she said, softer now, "You know, you can't heal if you keep letting her live in your head."
"Maybe she never left," he murmured, half to himself.
Anya stared at him, the hurt flickering behind her eyes before she masked it with a small smile. "Then maybe you need new memories to replace the old ones."
Her voice was light, but her meaning wasn't. It lingered in the air between them like static.
After she left, Dhruve sat alone again, holding the untouched coffee she'd brought. The warmth seeped into his palms — the only warmth left in the room.
He opened his phone. Priya's message still sat there, unread. It mocked him with its simplicity.
He typed finally: "I'm alive. That's enough."
He hit send before he could stop himself.Immediately, regret flooded in — like stepping into cold water.
He turned off the phone, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
Outside, the sky had gone pale, the rain replaced by sunlight that didn't feel real yet.
He wasn't sure what he wanted anymore — forgiveness, revenge, peace, or just someone to understand the noise in his head.
Maybe that's what "moving on" really meant — not erasing the past, but learning to breathe around it.
Still, somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered:This isn't over.