The night was quiet, the kind of silence that only came when the world finally surrendered to sleep. In her small room, Piya lay on her back, staring at the faint glow of the ceiling fan circling above. Her phone rested beside her on the pillow, the screen dark, as though mocking her loneliness.
Her thoughts spun faster than she could catch them.
What is my future even going to look like? Will I ever find something that feels right? Why did I even take this course when I don't understand it?
The questions piled up like bricks on her chest, heavy and unmovable.
She turned to the side, eyes drawn to the pale glow of the moon peeking in through her window. It had always been there, patient and silent, like an old friend. Sometimes she found herself whispering secrets to it — silly things, impossible dreams — as if the moon were listening. But tonight, her chest felt too heavy even for words.
A sigh escaped her lips, soft and tired.
Morning came too quickly.
"Piya, get up! It's time already, or you'll be late for college again!" Her father's voice rang from the doorway, half stern, half amused.
She pulled the blanket over her head, groaning. "I don't want to go today."
Her dad chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. "You say that every day like a prayer. If I believed you, you'd never set foot in college again."
Piya peeked out from under the blanket, her lips twitching despite herself. "Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing," she muttered, half serious.
Her father stepped closer, pretending to scold but with a smile tugging at his lips. "Drama queen. Now hurry up, or I'll drag you out myself."
It was their routine — her complaints, his teasing, the push and pull of stubborn daughter and patient father. And though she argued, deep down, Piya knew this was her safest place in the world.
By the time she dragged herself back from college that afternoon, her body felt like it had been drained of all energy. The lectures blurred together, the crowded bus ride left her dizzy, and her own thoughts had been louder than any professor's words.
She clung to the railing as the bus jerked forward, squished between strangers. A small boy's voice suddenly rose above the hum of the engine.
"Uncle! This bus is more crowded than my school tiffin box!"
The conductor snorted. "Then go sit in your tiffin box."
"I will!" the boy shot back, glaring. "At least in my box I get food and space. Here I only get people's sweaty armpits!"
The passengers burst into laughter. Even Piya, who had been staring blankly at the floor, couldn't stop the small giggle that escaped her lips. For a moment, her chest felt lighter.
When she reached home, the exhaustion hit all at once. She dropped her bag to the floor and collapsed onto her bed without even changing her clothes.
"I'm exhausted," she mumbled to no one, her voice muffled against the pillow.
The ceiling fan spun lazily above her, and within minutes, she drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
Later at night, her mother's voice woke her.
"Piya, get up and eat dinner! Don't sleep all day."
She rubbed her eyes, stumbling toward the table. The food smelled warm, comforting, but she barely tasted anything before retreating back into the quiet of her room.
Her phone lit up in her hand as she scrolled aimlessly. No messages. No notifications that mattered. Out of boredom, she opened her gallery, flicking through old pictures — and froze.
A name, a photo, a smile she knew all too well.
Ayush.
Her heart skipped, then dropped, the sudden rush of emotions catching her off guard. She shut her phone quickly, pressing it against her chest as if that would stop the ache.
Tears burned at the back of her eyes, but she bit them back. Not now. Not yet.
As she curled into her blanket, she glanced at the moonlight spilling across her wall. A soft whisper escaped her lips.
"Mr. Moon... what am I supposed to do with all this?"
She didn't know then, but her story was only beginning. And someone new was already on their way into her world.