The first thing Dhruve noticed when he woke up was the silence.
No alarm. No notifications. No voice calling him "dear" from the kitchen. Just the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the faint light sneaking through the curtains. The air smelled faintly of rain and stale beer. His head throbbed a little, but the heaviness in his chest had eased — not gone, but gentler somehow.
He sat up, rubbed his face, and let out a long sigh. "Morning, huh?" he muttered, voice hoarse.
There was no rush anymore. No one waiting. No one asking where he'd been. Just him — the man who once thought love could outlast anything. Now, even his reflection in the window looked like someone new. Someone quieter, colder.
He made coffee, though it tasted like burnt regret. Still, it grounded him — the smell, the heat, the small act of doing something normal. He stood by the window, mug in hand, watching people hurry along the wet streets below. Life moved on. It always did. Whether you wanted it to or not.
He chuckled dryly. "Maybe that's the trick — just keep moving."
His phone lay on the table, screen dark. For a moment, he thought about turning it on. Messages, calls, maybe gossip — who knows? But instead, he picked it up and scrolled through the gallery. Photos of her, of them — smiles, vacations, stupid moments. He stared for a long time, feeling that familiar ache creep back.
Then, without a word, he started deleting them.
One by one.
No ceremony, no music in the background, no dramatic tears — just the soft click of each memory being erased. It hurt, yes, but there was also something liberating in it. Like peeling off an old bandage you'd been too scared to touch.
When the gallery was empty, he laughed under his breath. "There. Dead pixels, dead love."
He leaned back on the couch and took another sip of coffee, bitter and strong. He didn't feel healed. He didn't even feel better. But for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel trapped.
The day went by slowly. He showered, changed into clean clothes, even cleaned the apartment a little. Small victories, he told himself. The kind people overlook when they're trying to survive.
By afternoon, the clouds cleared. He decided to go out — not to work, not to meet anyone, just out. Maybe to feel something different.
The city was alive again — cars honking, street vendors shouting, life spilling in every direction. He walked aimlessly, past the park where they'd once picnicked, past the bookstore where she'd made him wait hours. Each place whispered memories, but they no longer clawed at him. They just existed. Like old photographs left in someone else's album.
He ended up by the riverbank — a quiet place he used to visit when work got too heavy. The water shimmered, reflecting the fading light of evening. He sat on the bench, lit a cigarette, and exhaled slowly.
"This feels weird," he said quietly to himself. "Being okay with not being okay."
He remembered her tears at the café, her broken voice saying she still thought about him. He didn't hate her anymore. Not completely. What he felt was… distance. The kind that comes after too many wounds, too many words left unsaid.
He closed his eyes, and for a brief second, imagined another version of them — one where things didn't fall apart, where they came home to each other, still laughing over small things.
Then he smiled sadly. "That world doesn't exist."
He took one last drag and flicked the cigarette into the water. Watching the ripples spread, he whispered, "Goodbye, Priya."
The word didn't echo. It just sank — quiet, heavy, final.
When night came, he walked back home, lighter somehow. The city lights blurred around him, but his steps were steady.
At home, he opened his laptop — blank document, new file.
He titled it "After the Storm."
And for the first time in months, Dhruve began to write again.
Not about revenge. Not about loss. But about survival — the kind that doesn't roar, just breathes.
Maybe it wasn't happiness. But it was life. And for now, that was enough.