The days after that coffee felt different.Not lighter, exactly, but less heavy — like someone had opened a small window in a room that had been sealed for years. Dhruve started noticing things again: the way sunlight spilled across his desk in the morning, the sound of rain tapping against the window, the smell of freshly brewed coffee in his kitchen. Ordinary things, but they felt new, sharper.
He still worked, still wrote, still carried the weight of what had happened — but it wasn't suffocating him anymore. It was just… there, like background noise.
And then there was Anya.
She had this strange, effortless way of showing up. Not clingy, not demanding — just there when she needed to be. Some evenings she'd send him a meme that made no sense, other times she'd call just to rant about her day, and once, out of nowhere, she dropped off takeout at his door with a note that said: "Eat. You look like a dying poet."
He had laughed out loud that night — genuinely laughed — and that startled him more than anything.
Still, there were moments when he felt the past crawling back.Sometimes, when he caught his reflection in the mirror, he saw the same hollow-eyed man who'd once stood frozen outside his own bedroom door. Sometimes, he'd wake up from dreams where Priya was still there — smiling, calling his name, like nothing had happened.
Those mornings were the worst.
He'd sit at the edge of the bed, rubbing his face, whispering, "It's over," like a prayer he was trying to make himself believe.
One Friday afternoon, Anya called him out of the blue.
"Get dressed. We're going out," she said.
Dhruve frowned. "I'm working."
"You're staring at a blinking cursor, aren't you?"
He looked at his laptop screen. The cursor blinked like it was mocking him. "…Maybe."
"Exactly. You've been cooped up too long. Fresh air, Dhruve. People. Noise. Life. Remember those?"
He sighed. "You're annoying."
"I'll take that as a yes. Be ready in 30."
She took him to a small rooftop bar overlooking the city. The place was warm, buzzing with low laughter and clinking glasses. He hadn't been in a crowd like this in months. It was strange — the sound of people being happy. It made him feel out of place, like a ghost walking through color.
Anya noticed."Stop thinking so much," she said, handing him a drink.
He looked at her. "I'm not."
She arched an eyebrow. "You always think. I can hear it."
He chuckled, taking the glass. "You're exhausting."
"Good," she said, grinning. "Maybe I'll shock some life back into you."
They talked. About everything and nothing. About stupid TV shows, bad office politics, and the time she almost got arrested for arguing with a traffic cop. She was chaos in human form — unpredictable, unfiltered, alive. And somehow, being near her made Dhruve feel a little more alive too.
At one point, she caught him staring at the skyline. "You ever think about going back?" she asked.
"To what?"
"To… whoever you were before all this."
He took a sip, considering the question. "I don't think he exists anymore."
"Maybe he doesn't have to," she said softly. "Maybe you just become someone else."
He smiled faintly. "You sound like a therapist."
"I sound like someone who's been through her own shit."
They fell quiet for a moment, watching the lights of the city flicker.Then she said, "You know, you're not as broken as you think."
He turned to her. "You don't know that."
She met his gaze — calm, steady. "Yeah, I do. Broken people don't show up. You did."
Her words hit something deep inside him.He looked away, heart tightening. He wanted to say thank you, or maybe don't say things like that — but instead, he just whispered, "You have no idea how wrong you might be."
Anya smiled. "Then prove me right."
That night, when they parted, she leaned in and gave him a small kiss on the cheek.It was quick, simple — but it lingered longer than it should have.
"Goodnight, Dhruve," she said. "Try not to think too much."
He stood there for a moment, watching her walk away. The city lights flickered around him, and for once, they didn't feel cold.
On the way home, he couldn't stop replaying that moment — not because of the kiss itself, but because of what it meant. It wasn't love. Not yet. But it was hope. A dangerous thing, but a beautiful one too.
When he reached home, he opened his laptop again.The cursor blinked at him, waiting.
This time, he began typing.
"Maybe healing isn't about forgetting. Maybe it's about finding new reasons to keep living."
He stared at the words for a long time.And then, for the first time, he didn't delete them.