Bhavnagar felt strangely quiet after the last day at Kiara's college. It was funny because technically it wasn't even my college, yet the silence felt personal. Just yesterday the corridors were loud with Kiara's friends shouting across classrooms, arguing over assignments, laughing like the world was ending. Now everything stood still, like someone had pressed pause on a life I had only just stepped into.
I had only been there for a short while — visiting, observing, existing on the edge of someone else's circle. I wasn't fully inside it, but I wasn't completely outside either. That in-between space felt heavier than it should have. The ground where everyone had played looked distant now, like it had already erased yesterday's noise and drama.
And no matter how much I tried to distract myself, my brain kept replaying one specific moment.
I was sitting under that tree, migraine splitting my head in half, pretending I was fine because I hate being seen when I'm not fine. I remember the sunlight filtering through the leaves, the faint sound of everyone playing in the background, and then my own stupid tears slipping out without permission.
And then his voice.
"Are you okay?"
It had been two days since that happened. Two whole days, and somehow that one simple question had lodged itself somewhere between my ribs and refused to leave. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't poetic. It was basic. But it didn't feel basic.
I kept telling myself I was overreacting. He was just being nice. Anyone would have asked that. It was basic human decency. Nothing more.
Still, whenever I thought about the way he had looked at me — not curious, not confused, just concerned — something inside me shifted quietly. And I didn't know what to do with that shift.
It shouldn't have mattered.
But it did.
I was still stuck in that loop of overthinking when real life decided to interrupt me.
Kiara was in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes like they had personally offended her entire bloodline. The intensity with which she was attacking a steel plate made me slightly concerned for the plate's safety.
I, on the other hand, was sitting on the counter, legs swinging freely, providing absolutely zero help and 100% commentary.
"I'm telling you," I declared dramatically, pointing at the wall like it had personally agreed with me, "if Rudra ever becomes a life coach, I'm deleting myself from society."
Kiara snorted without turning around. "He'll give advice like, 'Just sleep, bro.' That's it. End of seminar."
"Exactly! And people will clap like he discovered inner peace."
She shook her head, still scrubbing aggressively. "You both are equally dramatic. Don't act superior."
Before I could defend my very respectable reputation, her phone started vibrating near the sink, dancing dangerously close to water like it had no survival instincts.
"Pick it up!" Kiara shouted over the running tap. "My hands are soaked!"
I groaned loudly. "You treat me like unpaid staff. I don't even get benefits."
"Pick. It. Up."
I grabbed the phone carelessly, still mid-eye-roll, fully prepared to answer with my usual bored tone.
And then I looked at the screen.
Aarav calling.
For a second, my brain stopped working. Not metaphorically. Literally. It just paused.
My stomach did that stupid little flip again — the one I had been pretending didn't exist for the past two days.
I suddenly became very aware of the fact that I was sitting on a kitchen counter, barefoot, hair messy, heart racing for no logical reason.
Why is he calling Kiara? I mean obviously he's calling Kiara. Why would he call me?
I cleared my throat like I was about to attend a job interview instead of answering a phone.
And then I pressed accept.
"Hello?"
There was a slight pause on the other side, just enough to make my heart do something unnecessary.
"Oh. Hi. Is Kiara there?"
His voice was exactly the same as I remembered. Calm. Balanced. Annoyingly steady. As if he hadn't casually rearranged my internal system two days ago with one question.
"She's doing dishes," I said, glancing at Kiara who was currently in a battle with a stubborn plate. "She'll call you back once she's done."
"Okay."
The silence stretched for a few seconds after I told him Kiara would call back. I was just about to pull the phone away from my ear when he spoke again.
"How are you?" he asked, his tone calm but deliberate, like he wasn't asking casually just to fill space.
I blinked and shifted on the counter, suddenly aware that I was sitting cross-legged like a confused crow.
"Me?" I tried to sound amused, but there was a tiny crack of confusion in my voice.
"Yes, you," he replied steadily. "So... how are you?"
I exhaled slowly and looked at the kitchen ceiling. "I'm fine. Functioning. Not crying under trees anymore, if that's what you're checking."
"And your headache?" he continued gently. "Is it gone or are you pretending again?"
That made me sit up straighter. "Excuse me? I do not pretend," I protested lightly. Then softer, "Yeah... it's better now. It was just a migraine."
"Good," he said, and the way he said it wasn't dramatic, but it felt steady. Certain. Like he actually cared about the answer.
Another small pause.
I waited for him to redirect. To say he'd call Kiara later. To end this accidental extension of a conversation that wasn't supposed to be mine.
Instead, he asked, "What are you doing right now?"
I glanced again at Kiara wrestling with bowl in the sink. "I'm supervising," I said seriously. "She's washing dishes. I'm offering emotional support from a safe distance."
A low chuckle came from his side. "That sounds exactly like something you'd do."
"Rude," I shot back, narrowing my eyes at absolutely nothing. "I am contributing significantly to household productivity."
"By talking?" he asked calmly.
"Yes," I said defensively. "Motivation is important. I'm basically the management."
He laughed softly again, and it didn't feel forced. It felt easy.
"When are you leaving?" he asked after a second.
"Tomorrow evening, probably," I replied, swinging my leg absentmindedly. "Still deciding whether I want to stay and emotionally adopt this city."
"Is Bhavnagar always this hot," I added, fanning myself dramatically, "or is it personally targeting us?"
"It's definitely targeting you," he replied without missing a beat. "You look like someone the sun would compete with."
I gasped. "Was that an insult or a compliment?"
"You decide."
Somewhere between those small exchanges, I realized I wasn't tense anymore. I wasn't calculating my words.
It slowly stopped feeling accidental.
It just felt... normal.
Then his tone shifted.
Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would catch. Just a little softer. A little more focused.
"Misha?"
I swallowed. "Hmm?"
"That day."
My heartbeat stumbled. I stared at the wall like it had suddenly become very interesting. "Which day?" I asked, even though I knew exactly which one he meant.
He didn't let me escape.
"Under the tree."
My fingers tightened around the phone. The memory rushed back too easily — the heat, the silence, the way I had stared at the ground like it held answers. "Oh," I said, because that was safer than anything honest.
"What happened?"
His voice wasn't demanding. It wasn't dramatic. It was just... steady. A straight question placed gently between us.
I tried to laugh it off. "Nothing cinematic, if that's what you're expecting. No dramatic fainting or life-changing revelation. I was just sitting there."
He didn't respond.
Didn't say "okay."
Didn't fill the silence.
He just waited.
And that waiting pressed against my chest harder than any interrogation would have.
"I was just tired," I added, softer this time. "It was a long day."
Still nothing. Just quiet breathing on the other side.
It made me shift again, suddenly hyperaware of every half-truth in my voice. "You're making it sound serious," I tried to joke, forcing lightness. "It was just a headache and bad mood. I'm allowed those, you know."
Another pause.
Not skeptical.
Not judging.
Just... present.
And that somehow made my throat tighten.
Because if he had brushed it off, I could've brushed it off too. If he had teased me, I could've hidden behind sarcasm.
But he was listening.
And that scared me more than I expected.
I exhaled slowly, staring at the tiles on the kitchen wall like they were about to judge me.
"I felt awkward," I admitted, my voice quieter than I expected it to be.
"With us?" he asked, not defensive, not surprised. Just trying to understand.
I swallowed. "I mean... you all are Kiara's friends. Not really mine. I didn't want to just show up and act like I belonged. I didn't want to... invade."
There. I said it. The dramatic, overthinking, slightly embarrassing truth.
There was a small silence on the other side. Not heavy. Just thoughtful.
Then he asked calmly, "Did anyone make you feel left out? Like actually make you feel that way?"
I shook my head even though he couldn't see me. "No. No one did."
"Did anyone ignore you? Or say something that hurt you?"
"No," I repeated, softer this time.
"Then why are you deciding it for yourself?" he asked, and there was no accusation in his voice. Just quiet logic.
I frowned at the wall. "Because it's your group," I said, almost defensively. "You all have history. Inside jokes. I didn't want to disturb that."
"You're not disturbing anything," he replied immediately, like the thought offended him. "You're adding to it."
My throat tightened unexpectedly, and for a second I forgot how to respond — because that wasn't the word I had prepared myself to hear.
The word hit somewhere unexpected.
Not intruding. Not replacing. Not squeezing in.
Adding.
I leaned back slightly against the counter, letting that sink in. "I still feel like I'm forcing myself," I confessed, fingers tracing the edge of the phone.
"It's normal to feel that way," he said gently. "New people are uncomfortable. New spaces feel weird. But if you keep thinking we're not your friends, you'll never feel like we are."
I didn't respond immediately. Because he wasn't wrong.
"And if you start believing that we are your friends," he continued, his tone steady, "then we are. It's honestly that simple."
It sounded ridiculously simple. Almost annoyingly simple.
But my brain had never looked at it like that.
I had been standing outside a door that was never even locked.
"You overthink a lot," he added, and I could almost hear the small smile in his voice.
"I know," I muttered.
"But try to look at it differently," he went on. "You're not stepping into Kiara's group. You're getting new friends. That's not something to feel guilty about."
Something in my chest loosened.
I didn't realize how badly I needed someone to say that out loud.
"You make it sound easy," I murmured.
"It is easy," he replied without hesitation. "You're just dramatic."
I gasped loudly, straightening up. "Excuse me? I am not dramatic. I am emotionally expressive."
He laughed softly, and that laugh felt... warm. Uncomplicated.
"There it is," he said. "That's the Misha we saw. Not the one hiding under trees."
I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn't see it. "I was not hiding. I was strategically resting."
"Sure," he said, amused.
After that, the conversation drifted back into lighter territory. We started talking about Rudra's questionable wisdom, Advik's obsession with being early to everything like punctuality was a personality trait, and Kiara's dramatic war with kitchen utensils.
At some point, I forgot that I had only picked up the call because Kiara's hands were wet.
It didn't feel like I was filling in for someone anymore.
It felt like the conversation had chosen me.
Kiara suddenly yelled, "MISHA! Either help me or stop giving commentary like a cricket announcer!"
I jerked upright, nearly dropping the phone. "I am providing moral support!" I whispered sharply into the receiver, turning slightly away so she wouldn't hear me. Then, lowering my voice even more, I added, "Ignore her. She's dramatic when she's near dish soap."
From behind me, Kiara clanged a plate loudly against the sink. "I can hear you!"
I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh. "See?" I muttered softly into the phone. "Hostile work environment."
He chuckled again. "You're getting called."
"Yes," I muttered. "Apparently I have duties."
"Okay," he said softly.
"Bye," I replied, and for some reason my voice wasn't as casual as I wanted it to be.
"Bye, Misha."
He said my name slowly. Not dramatically. Not romantically. Just clearly.
And for some reason... that stayed with me long after the call ended.
I stared at the screen for a few seconds even after it went dark, like it might explain something if I looked at it hard enough. My reflection looked back at me — confused, slightly flushed, mildly offended at my own reaction.
"It was normal," I told myself.
Normal conversation. Normal concern. Normal human interaction.
So why did it not feel normal?
Kiara yelled again, "MISHA! Are you alive or did you elope with my phone?"
I blinked, shook my head once like that would reset my system, and got up. "I'm coming!" I shouted back, placing the phone face down on the table like it had personally betrayed me.
But even while wiping plates and pretending to listen to Kiara rant about detergent quality, a part of me was elsewhere.
Replaying.
Re-evaluating.
Re-feeling.
And the most irritating part was this — I wasn't scared of what had happened. I wasn't replaying it because it was embarrassing or awkward or wrong. I was replaying it because some stubborn part of me wanted it to happen again. Wanted the pause. Wanted the softness. Wanted the way he had said my name like it was the most natural thing in the world.
That thought followed me to bed and refused to leave. It stayed in the quiet space between the fan's slow whirring and Kiara's occasional turning in her sleep.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling like it held answers, feeling that strange mix of curiosity and caution twist together inside me. If today — a random, accidental call — had felt different in a way I couldn't explain... then what exactly would tomorrow feel like?