The gate closed behind them with a soft metallic click.
Nikhil didn't move.
The street felt empty now—too wide, too silent—like the night had suddenly exhaled and left him alone with everything he'd been avoiding. He stood exactly where she'd leaned into him, shoulder still warm, as if moving would mean admitting she was really gone.
He looked down at his hands.
They were shaking—not from the night, not from exhaustion—but from the words she'd said so softly they'd gone straight past his defenses.
Why didn't you come after me?
Why didn't you stop me?
He dragged a hand through his hair and let out a slow breath.
"I thought I was doing the right thing," he muttered to no one.
He started walking, footsteps slow, unsteady—not drunk, just heavy. Every step felt like walking backward through memories he'd tried to pack away.
He remembered the night she left.
How she'd stood there, waiting—just like she said.
How he'd watched her walk away and convinced himself silence was respect, that distance was maturity.
He stopped under another streetlight.
"I should've chosen you," he said aloud this time.
The truth sat ugly and undeniable in his chest:
He hadn't lost her because he didn't love her.
He lost her because he hesitated when love demanded courage.
He leaned against the wall, eyes closing briefly.
Seeing her laugh tonight—really laugh—had hurt more than seeing her cry ever did. Because it meant she was learning how to live without him. And the jealousy he'd felt wasn't about Rishabh or the dancing or the noise.
It was about time.
Time he couldn't rewind.
His phone buzzed. A message from Roohi.
She's home. She'll be okay.
He typed back slowly.
Thank you.
Then, after a pause, another message he didn't send sat glowing on his screen:
I'm sorry I didn't run after you.
He locked the phone instead.
Some apologies came too late to be spoken—but not too late to be learned from.
As he walked away, the city lights blurred, not because of tears he let fall, but because he refused to. He carried the ache quietly, the way he always had.
Only this time, he didn't confuse silence with love.
And for the first time since losing her,
Nikhil promised himself something he should've promised long ago:
If he ever loved someone again—
he would never let fear decide for him.
I was right there, standing in front of Mahi, yet somehow miles away.
She looked at me—no, she waited for me. I see that now. Her eyes weren't asking for answers; they were asking for reassurance. For comfort. For me to say, "I'm here."
But I didn't.
I told myself she was strong. I told myself she didn't need my interference. I told myself silence was safer than saying the wrong thing. What a cowardly excuse.
Her smile was small, forced. The kind that fades the moment you turn your back. And I turned away.
I remember how she said, "It's okay," as if she was convincing herself more than me. I should have stopped her. I should have held her hand, pulled her into a hug, or at least asked, "Do you want to talk?"
But I stayed quiet.
Now the quiet is unbearable.
Every memory replays with cruel clarity—her trembling voice, the pause before she spoke, the way she inhaled like she was bracing herself. She needed comfort, not logic. Presence, not distance.
And I failed her.
Regret isn't loud. It doesn't scream. It sits with you in the dark, whispering you could've done better over and over again.
If I get another chance, I won't assume her strength means she doesn't hurt. I won't confuse silence with understanding. I won't let fear stop me from choosing her.
Because loving someone isn't just being there in their happiness.
It's holding them when they're breaking.
And I should have held Mahi.
I watched her before I spoke.
Mahi looked… composed. Too composed. Like someone who had already decided where to place her boundaries.
"Mahi," I said. "Can we talk?"
She looked up, polite. "Is it work-related?"
That one sentence told me everything.
"No," I said quietly. "It's about yesterday. About what I didn't do."
She didn't sigh. She didn't roll her eyes. She just nodded, as if she had already prepared for this conversation.
"You asked to keep it professional," she said. "So I am."
Hearing my own words come back to me felt like standing in front of a mirror I'd been avoiding.
"I was wrong," I said. "I didn't know how to handle it, so I chose distance. And I regret that."
She met my eyes then, calm but unreadable. "Regret doesn't undo the moment, Nikil."
"I know," I said. "But I want you to know I cared. I do care."
She gave a small smile—not unkind, not warm. Controlled. "Caring after the fact doesn't help much."
That stung, because she was right.
"I should've stayed," I admitted. "I should've asked if you were okay. I should've just been there."
"Yes," she said simply. No anger. No comfort for me either.
Silence stretched between us, and in that silence I understood—she wasn't trying to hurt me. She was protecting herself.
"I'm not taking revenge," she said, as if reading my thoughts. "I'm just not reaching where I wasn't met."
I nodded. "So… this is how it is now?"
"This is how you wanted it," she replied. "Professional. Clear. Safe."
Safe for her.
Empty for me.
She picked up her things and paused. "I hope you understand."
"I do," I said. And for the first time, I really did.
As she walked away, I realized something painful and necessary—
You don't lose people in dramatic fights.
You lose them in moments where you choose comfort over courage.
And I had chosen wrong.
For the first time, I understood that apologies aren't meant to be loud. They're meant to be consistent. So I stayed where she could see me—not emotionally demanding, not crossing lines.
I listened more.
I stopped explaining myself.
I showed up on time. I remembered small details. I didn't ask for closeness—I earned trust.
She noticed. I know she did.
Not because she said anything, but because one day she paused before leaving and said, very casually,
"Thanks for handling that."
Just that.
It wasn't forgiveness.
But it was acknowledgment.
And somehow, that felt like hope.
Alright.
Days passed. Nothing dramatic happened. And that's what made it different.
She still kept her distance, still spoke carefully, still stayed within the lines she had drawn. But the edges of those lines… they weren't as sharp anymore.
One afternoon, she forgot her notebook on the desk. I picked it up without thinking and called out, "Mahi."
She turned back. For a second, I expected that same guarded look.
Instead, she smiled. Just slightly. "Thanks."
Not professional. Not distant. Just… human.
Another day, during a long meeting, she leaned over and whispered, "This could've been an email."
I almost laughed—almost. She noticed.
"You agree," she said, raising an eyebrow.
"I do," I admitted.
That was new.
Shared humor. A crack in the wall.
She started asking my opinion again—not because she had to, but because she wanted it. She didn't linger, didn't overshare, but she stayed present.
Once, when I looked exhausted, she said, "You should sleep more."
No sarcasm. No distance.
I didn't reply with a joke. I just nodded. "I will."
And she watched me for a moment longer than necessary before looking away.
I never brought up the past. I didn't ask her to forgive me. I let my actions speak the apology I had already said too late.
Then one evening, as we were leaving together by coincidence, she slowed her steps to match mine.
"You've changed," she said, not accusing. Observing.
"I'm trying," I replied.
She nodded. "I can see that."
That was it. No grand reconciliation. No sudden warmth.
But something eased.
She wasn't fully letting me in yet—but she wasn't locking the door either.
And for the first time since I messed up, I felt something lighter than regret.
Patience.