The days slipped by like pages from a forgotten book — soft, unhurried, familiar. Dhruve found himself talking to Anya more often. It wasn't planned; it just… happened. A text here, a random call there. Sometimes she'd drop by with coffee, claiming she was "in the area," though he knew she wasn't.
They'd sit together — sometimes talking, sometimes just sharing silence.It felt strange at first. Comfortable, but dangerous.
He hadn't felt this kind of ease in years.
One rainy evening, Anya showed up again. She was drenched from head to toe, holding a flimsy umbrella that looked more decorative than useful.
"You're insane," Dhruve said, opening the door wider.
"I brought dinner," she said, lifting a paper bag. "And probably pneumonia."
He shook his head, trying not to smile. "You really don't listen, do you?"
"Never have, never will," she said, walking in like she owned the place.
He handed her a towel, and she sat cross-legged on the couch, towel wrapped around her shoulders, steam rising from the noodles she unpacked. They ate in comfortable silence, listening to the rain hit the windows.
It felt peaceful. Too peaceful.And that's what scared him.
At some point, she looked up. "You always get that faraway look. Like you're here, but not really."
Dhruve chewed slowly, avoiding her eyes. "Habit, I guess."
"From what?"
He sighed. "From pretending everything was fine when it wasn't."
Anya didn't say anything for a while. Then softly, "You don't have to do that anymore."
He smiled faintly, but his eyes didn't match. "You'd be surprised how hard it is to stop."
Later that night, they watched a movie — something light, something meaningless.Halfway through, Dhruve felt his shoulder brush against hers. He didn't move away this time.
The air between them shifted — subtle, quiet.She leaned her head against him.
For a long moment, he just sat there, frozen.Then, slowly, he let out a breath and relaxed into it.
Her hair smelled faintly of rain and coffee. Her warmth pressed against his side.
It wasn't love.But it wasn't loneliness, either.
Maybe it was something in between — that fragile, unspoken space where broken people learn how to exist again.
When the movie ended, neither moved. The credits rolled, the rain softened outside.Dhruve stared at the flickering screen, his chest tight in a way he couldn't name.
Anya looked up at him, her voice low. "You're thinking again."
He smiled tiredly. "I don't know how to stop."
"Try," she whispered.
He turned toward her — and before he could stop himself, his hand brushed a loose strand of hair from her face.
She didn't move.Her eyes stayed on his, soft, searching.
For a second, time slowed — the air thick, electric.
Then she said, "You're scared."
Dhruve exhaled, almost a laugh. "You have no idea."
"I don't need to," she murmured. "I can see it."
And instead of pushing, she just smiled — a small, knowing curve of her lips — and leaned her head back onto his shoulder.
That was it.No kiss. No confession. Just presence.And somehow, that meant more.
When she left later that night, Dhruve stood at the door long after she was gone.The apartment felt different — not empty, just… alive again.
He went to his desk and opened his journal, something he hadn't touched in months. The pen hovered above the page for a while before he began to write:
"Some people don't fix you. They just sit beside you while you start fixing yourself."
He read it twice. Then three times.And for once, it didn't sound like a lie.
He went to bed that night without any dreams.Just a quiet kind of peace — fragile, fleeting, but real.