At 2:17 a.m., Bengaluru pretended to sleep.
The city had learned this trick over years—lowering its voice without ever truly falling silent. The daytime chaos retreated just enough to create the illusion of rest, but if you listened carefully, the movement never stopped. Somewhere on the road below, an auto rumbled past, its engine echoing briefly before dissolving into the dark. A delivery bike followed not long after, cutting through the stillness with purpose. Even the streetlights looked tired, their glow softer, as if conserving energy for the next morning's rush.
Aarav Malhotra lay flat on his narrow bed, phone balanced above his face, the ceiling fan rotating in uneven circles. The fan rattled faintly with every turn, a dry mechanical complaint that rose and fell like an argument no one bothered to finish. He had meant to complain about it to the PG owner weeks ago. He always forgot.
The room smelled faintly of damp clothes and instant coffee. A half-washed mug sat abandoned on the small desk near the window, a thin ring of brown clinging to the inside. His backpack leaned against the wall, unzipped, papers spilling out like they'd given up trying to stay organized.
Across the room, his roommate's bed was empty.
The sheets were twisted, the pillow dented in the shape of someone who slept quickly and left without overthinking it. Aarav rarely asked where his roommate went at night. Parties, dates, late dinners—answers that made Aarav feel like a spectator in his own life.
On Aarav's phone, the screen glowed white.
The cursor blinked.
Short Story Submission — 1500 words.
Deadline: Tomorrow.
The blinking cursor felt accusatory, like it knew something he didn't.
Aarav exhaled slowly and locked the phone, letting it fall onto his chest. The ceiling fan clicked as it rotated. He counted the seconds between each sound, a habit he'd picked up during nights like this—nights when sleep felt optional but impossible.
He could read endlessly. Books, essays, poetry—he devoured them with an almost embarrassing hunger. He read during bus rides, between lectures, before sleeping, sometimes even while eating. He knew how sentences were supposed to feel when they landed right. He could recognize a good paragraph the way a musician recognized a clean note.
But when it came to writing his own words, his mind emptied itself with ruthless efficiency.
It wasn't fear. Not exactly.
Fear implied danger, failure, consequence. This felt quieter than that. It felt like standing at a starting line and realizing everyone else had begun running long ago.
He rolled onto his side and stared at the wall. A poster he'd stuck up during first year peeled slightly at the corners, a quote about persistence and dreams curling away from the paint. Back then, he'd liked how it sounded. Now it felt like something written for someone else.
Maybe I'm not meant to write, he thought.
Maybe I just like the idea of it.
The thought didn't hurt as much as it should have. It felt familiar. Comfortable, even.
His phone vibrated.
Once.
Aarav frowned.
No one texted him this late anymore. The handful of friends he still spoke to slept early now, or pretended to. Conversations had grown efficient over time—reduced to logistics, emojis, and vague promises to meet that never matured into plans.
He picked up the phone.
A notification sat quietly at the top of the screen.
Unknown User — Writing Forum App
For a moment, he didn't move.
The app icon stirred a vague memory. A writing forum he'd joined in first year, during a phase when ambition felt endless and deadlines felt theoretical. He remembered staying up late back then too, scrolling through threads, reading unfinished poems and messy short stories written by strangers who sounded braver than him.
He hadn't opened the app in months. Maybe longer. It existed now as a digital relic of a version of himself that still believed wanting something was enough.
He tapped the notification.
The message was short.
Do you believe voices remember things better than people?
Aarav stared at the question longer than necessary.
It wasn't phrased like a pickup line. It wasn't dramatic or self-pitying. It didn't demand attention. It simply existed—quiet, thoughtful, unfinished.
He began typing a reply.
What do you mean?
He deleted it.
Depends on the voice.
Deleted.
He locked the phone again, annoyed at himself for overthinking a message from a stranger. He tossed the phone aside and turned toward the wall, closing his eyes.
The phone vibrated again.
He sighed and reached for it.
Another notification.
Voice note — 0:43 seconds
Aarav hesitated.
Voice notes made him uncomfortable. They demanded presence. You couldn't skim them or multitask through them the way you could with text. Voices carried texture—breath, pauses, uncertainty. They forced you to pay attention.
He didn't know why this one felt different. Maybe it was the hour. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the way the earlier question had settled somewhere in his chest and refused to leave.
He plugged in his earphones.
Then, after a brief pause, he pressed play.
A girl's voice filled the room.
Soft.
Unhurried.
Like she wasn't afraid of silence.
"I think voices stay… even when faces fade.
That's why I'm scared of losing mine."
The words arrived slowly, carried on a voice that sounded calm but careful, as if each sentence had been chosen rather than rushed.
Aarav sat up without realizing it.
The ceiling fan rattled overhead.
The city exhaled outside the window.
The voice lingered in his ears long after the note ended.
He replayed it once.
Then again.
Not because he hadn't understood the words—but because something in the sound felt familiar in a way he couldn't place.
He took a breath and typed.
I've never thought about it like that.
He hit send before he could change his mind.
The reply came almost immediately.
Voice note — 0:27 seconds
"Most people don't.
They rush.
I like pausing."
Aarav felt something loosen in his chest.
He didn't know her name.
He didn't know where she was.
He didn't know why she'd messaged him.
But as the city continued pretending to sleep, Aarav realized something quietly, almost reluctantly:
For the first time in weeks, he wasn't alone with his thoughts.