She didn't have the courage to call him after that.
And neither did he.
Days passed like that—slow, heavy, suffocating.
She thought distance would help. That keeping quiet would calm her heart. But it did the opposite. She thought about him while working, while eating, while laughing with others. Even in crowded rooms, her mind drifted back to him. Every notification made her hope. Every silence made her ache.
Two weeks passed.
By then, her feelings were no longer something she could control or hide. The distance became unbearable—not because she missed conversations, but because she missed him. The way he noticed her. The way his presence had quietly become a part of her routine.
So she did what she always did when emotions overwhelmed her—
she reached out in the most messed-up way possible.
She called him.
Not softly.
Not sweetly.
But with complaints.
She spoke about things that bothered her, about his absence, about how he didn't try. She masked her longing as irritation, her craving for attention as frustration. What she didn't know was that he was already in a bad mood—office politics draining him, work exhausting him, patience wearing thin.
And just like that, the conversation turned.
It wasn't a harsh argument.
It wasn't cruel.
It was… awkwardly cute, messy, emotional—two people talking past each other while meaning something else entirely.
Still, her heart raced.
She prayed silently that he wouldn't get angry. That he wouldn't hang up. That he wouldn't disappear again. All she wanted was his attention—just enough to feel seen again.
But words have weight.
And in the middle of that conversation, hurt slipped out disguised as sarcasm.
"I wish you get someone exactly like you," she said, half-joking, half-wounded.
There was a pause.
"Same," he replied. "I wish the same for you."
Then, almost casually—yet deeply—it came.
"You're selfish," he said.
The word hit harder than she expected.
Not because it was cruel—but because somewhere inside, she feared it might be true.
The call ended there.
No apology.
No resolution.
Just two people holding onto their pride while quietly hurting.
She stared at her phone afterward, wondering if wanting someone's attention made her selfish—or just human.
And somewhere deep inside, she feared she had pushed him a little farther away…
when all she had wanted was to pull him closer.
She lay on her bed that night, staring at the ceiling, her phone face-down beside her. Somewhere in the apartment building opposite hers, someone was shifting furniture. The sound echoed faintly through the open window—chairs scraping, boxes moving, footsteps pacing. Normally, she would have been curious. That kind of noise always made her wonder who lived there, what their life looked like.
That night, she didn't care.
Her mind was somewhere else entirely.
With him.
Every thought circled back to Arsh—what he was doing, whether he was okay, whether office politics were draining him as much as she imagined. The argument still sat heavy in her chest. The things left unsaid hurt more than the words they had exchanged.
Sleep came late, but when it did, it carried his name with it.
The next evening, she stepped out of the supermarket, grocery bags weighing down her hands, phone clutched loosely as she scrolled without really seeing anything. Her mind was running its usual loop—him, silence, distance—when a sharp horn cut through her thoughts.
She looked up.
And her world stopped.
It was him.
For a second, her brain refused to cooperate. Her heart skipped so hard it almost hurt. She slowed her steps, then stopped completely, blinking once… twice… checking again.
No. This can't be real.
But it was.
Arsh.
Right there.
She actually turned her head slightly, as if changing the angle might prove her wrong. But the truth stayed the same. It was really him.
He didn't stop.
Didn't wave.
Didn't smile.
He just drove past her—calm, composed, distant.
The happiness that exploded inside her tangled instantly with confusion. Her hands trembled as she stood there, grocery bags forgotten, trying to process what had just happened. Before she could think, before fear could stop her, she dialed his number.
The phone rang.
And panic hit.
She cut the call immediately.
Her courage evaporated just as fast as it had appeared.
Instead, she typed a message.
I called by mistake.
The reply came sooner than she expected.
You didn't even recognize me.
Her fingers hovered above the screen.
I thought the same, she replied.
A pause.
Then another message appeared.
I've shifted here.
Her heart jumped so hard it felt unreal.
Inside her head, fireworks went off. Yay. That's so nice.
Outwardly, she restrained herself. She didn't let excitement spill into words. She didn't let herself seem eager.
She wished him well, kept it light, casual—like this wasn't the biggest coincidence of her life.
That night, she slept better than she had in weeks. Smiling softly, wrapped in the comfort of knowing he was closer now—physically, at least.
The next day, things slipped back into their familiar pattern.
Silent admiration.
Careful distance.
At the office, her colleagues talked about him as usual—casual gossip, passing comments, speculations. She stayed quiet. She didn't defend him. Didn't add opinions. But every small detail they shared felt like a gift. Being an intern had its perks—information flowed freely, even when words between them didn't.
Even without speaking to him, he occupied her mind. Every hour. Every task. Every pause.
And then, suddenly, everything shook again.
She heard it through whispers first. Then confirmations.
Arsh was resigning.
Office politics. Pressure. Stress piling up until it became unbearable.
Her heart dropped.
She wanted to text him immediately—but fear wrapped tightly around her fingers. Instead, she chose the only way she felt safe enough. She changed her story privacy settings so that only he could see them.
And there—hidden in stories that vanished after twenty-four hours—she poured out everything she couldn't say directly.
Questions she was scared to ask.
Feelings she had no courage to voice.
Thoughts that had been sitting heavy on her chest for weeks.
He replied.
Not with messages—but with his own stories.
She wasn't someone who lived on social media. But now, it became their language. A space where they could talk without talking. Where nothing was obvious, yet everything was understood.
She shared reels that hinted at him.
He shared reels that mirrored her thoughts.
Ninety-two stories from her.
One hundred fifty-two from him.
It felt… gentle again. Familiar. Almost comforting.
Until she brought up the resignation.
The shift was immediate.
The warmth thinned. The rhythm broke. The conversation turned sharp, edged with frustration—like the argument they'd had before.
"Why are you being like this?" she asked, her concern slipping through despite herself.
His answer came firm and unwavering.
"Either I give one hundred percent," he said, "or zero. There's no in between."
The words sank deep.
Because she had been living in the in between for so long—balancing hope and fear, wanting and holding back—while he was someone who only knew extremes.
And once again, she found herself standing at the edge of something she desperately wanted… unsure whether stepping forward would finally bring her closer to him—or push him away forever.