Aarav stared at the screen after her last voice note ended, the earphones still warm in his ears. He realized his breathing had slowed to match the pace of her voice, like his body had adjusted without asking him.
He typed, paused, deleted. Typed again.
You sound like you think a lot.
The reply came after a minute this time, not instantly.
Voice note — 0:52 seconds
"I do.
Mostly at night.
It's quieter then.
Thinking feels… allowed."
Aarav smiled despite himself.
"Yeah," he murmured aloud, though she couldn't hear him yet. "It does."
He hesitated, then pressed the microphone icon.
His voice felt strange in his own ears, amplified by the quiet room.
"I'm Aarav," he said. "By the way."
He almost added nice to meet you and stopped himself. It felt too formal for something that already felt oddly intimate.
There was a pause before her reply arrived.
Voice note — 0:34 seconds
"I'm Ira."
Just that. No surname. No explanation.
It felt intentional.
They fell into conversation the way some people fall asleep—not suddenly, but gradually, without noticing the exact moment it happened. Aarav leaned back against his pillow, one knee bent, phone resting on his chest as they exchanged voice notes instead of text. It felt easier that way. More honest.
Ira talked about Delhi nights. About how the city sounded different after midnight—less like a machine, more like a collection of individual lives briefly overlapping.
"I sit on the terrace sometimes," she said. "Near the water tank. It's the only place where I feel like I can hear myself think."
Aarav pictured it without trying. The low parapet walls. The hum of distant traffic. The quiet courage it took to be alone with your thoughts.
"I like the rain here," he said. "In Bengaluru. It makes everything smell clean. Like the city's apologizing for something."
She laughed softly.
"That's a nice way to put it."
The night stretched.
They spoke about small things first—books they liked, songs they listened to on repeat, the strange comfort of routine. Aarav found himself opening up in pieces, saying things he usually edited out of conversations.
"I feel like everyone around me is moving faster," he admitted at one point. "Like they know where they're going. And I'm just… here."
There was no immediate response.
He wondered if he'd said too much.
Then her voice came through, steady and warm.
"Being 'here' isn't nothing," she said.
"It just doesn't look impressive from the outside."
Something in his throat tightened.
They talked about writing. Ira said she wrote poems she never showed anyone. Aarav admitted he hadn't written anything in months.
"You sound like someone who listens more than he speaks," she said.
"I think that's easier," he replied. "Words feel heavier when they're yours."
"I like that," she said. "Heavy words mean something."
At some point, Aarav glanced at the clock.
3:41 a.m.
He didn't remember deciding to stay awake this long. It had just… happened.
"I should probably sleep," he said reluctantly.
"Me too," Ira replied. "Morning comes too fast."
There was a pause. Not awkward. Just full.
"Can we talk again?" Aarav asked, surprised by how much he wanted it.
"Yes," she said easily. "Tomorrow night."
After the call ended, Aarav lay staring at the ceiling fan again. It rattled on, unchanged. The room smelled the same. The city outside continued its quiet hum.
But something had shifted.
He picked up his phone and opened the blank document again.
The cursor blinked.
This time, it didn't feel accusatory.
He typed a single sentence.
At 2:17 a.m., the city pretended to sleep.
He stared at it for a long moment, then smiled.