It's past midnight.
The city outside has softened, exhaling into the kind of silence that only comes when the world forgets it's being watched. The usual chorus—barking dogs, honking scooters, the distant murmur of conversations—has given way to a hush. Even the streetlight bleeding through her curtain seems gentler tonight, as if it knows better than to intrude.
But Anaya is still wide awake.
She sits at the edge of her bed, knees drawn to her chest, chin resting on them like a child trying to shrink into herself. The yellow bedsheet beneath her is wrinkled, caught in the folds of yesterday's tension. Her room feels like a held breath—notes scattered, books open, highlighters lying like exhausted soldiers across the desk. A pen balances dangerously on the edge, as if mirroring her state of mind. Beside it, a half-drunk glass of water sits untouched, gathering room temperature and loneliness.
Her sweatshirt—the one she always wears when she's not okay—is tossed over the back of the chair, sleeves hanging like tired arms that once held her together. A piece of her hair clip lies snapped on the floor—evidence of some moment earlier when frustration had outweighed patience.
Yet, none of it feels real. Just background noise in a world that feels paused.
She stares at nothing, and everything stares back.
Anaya (internal monologue):
I talk too much. I know. Laugh too loudly at jokes that aren't funny. Say things just to fill the silence. People think I'm light—breezy, silly, forgettable. The kind of person who floats in and out of rooms like she was never really there to begin with.
Maybe I let them think that. Maybe it's easier that way.
If they saw the rest... the mess, the ache, the overthinking spiral I can't ever shut off... they'd run. Or worse—try to fix me. And I don't want to be fixed. I just want to be understood.
Her eyes shift to her phone.
The screen is dim. Blank. The weight of no-notifications feels heavier than it should, as if silence has a body and it's lying across her chest.
She doesn't touch it yet. Just stares.
Anaya (thinking):
Ten years.
Ten goddamn years.
It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud. Who holds on that long? Who keeps a window open in their head for someone who never returned?
I don't even know if I miss the boy he really was... or the one I kept stitching together in my mind every year I didn't see him. It's like missing a ghost. Or worse—an idea.
She picks up the phone. Her thumb hovers over a name—the one she always stops at but never clicks. The name that still lives somewhere inside her like an unfinished sentence. She used to open that chat often, scroll up just to read old texts. Now, even that hurts.
She doesn't open it.
Just lowers the phone back onto the bed like it's made of glass.
Her gaze shifts downward.
Her foot—wrapped, snug, steady. The bandage still holds the neatness of the hands that tied it. Pradeep's hands.
And that's when her thoughts shift, almost reluctantly.
Anaya (thinking):
And then there's Pradeep.
Steady. Subtle. The one who sees me now—not the girl I used to be, not the ghost of someone else's memory.
He doesn't ask for pieces of my past. Doesn't try to shine a flashlight into the shadows I live with. He just... shows up. Quietly. Like the world didn't tell him he was supposed to fix me.
No noise. No promises. Just this warm, grounding presence. It should be enough. Maybe it is.
Unless he sees this part. This broken-in-the-dark version of me—the one who still grieves for someone who doesn't even know he left echoes behind. Would he stay then?
She pulls the blanket tighter over her legs, trying to build a small fort around herself with its edges.
A long breath slips out of her—tired, raw, and thick with everything she doesn't have the language for.
The tears don't fall like a storm.
They come the way her thoughts do: slow, hesitant, uncertain. Almost like they're asking for permission.
They don't demand space.
They just need to exist.
She doesn't wipe them away.
Anaya (thinking):
Tomorrow, I'll laugh again. I'll tease Pradeep. I'll act like I didn't spend the night in pieces. I'll wear eyeliner like armor and tell dumb jokes that don't quite land.
That version of me is easier to carry around.
But tonight... I miss him. The boy who never knew how much of me he took when he left. The version of me that breaks at night?
No one gets to see her.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The clock nudges past 1 a.m.
She doesn't move.
She doesn't need to.
Some feelings don't ask for action. They just want to be acknowledged.
And so, she lets them breathe—unrushed, unfiltered.
Buzz.
The phone lights up on the mattress beside her.
She blinks. The glow catches her in mid-thought.
Pradeep:
Don't forget to elevate your foot. Swelling gets worse overnight.
She stares at the message.
It's simple. So very him. No fluff, no pretense. Just care, disguised as instruction. Just... presence.
And somehow, it feels like someone opened a window and let a little bit of light in.
She picks up the phone and types, slower than usual. Like each word has to move through the fog first.
Anaya:
Got it, doc. Might even draw a smiley on the gauze just to feel dramatic.
Three dots appear.
Then—
Pradeep:
Only if it's a good smiley. No sad faces allowed.
A short laugh escapes her lips. Barely a sound. Just breath with shape. But it's enough.
Something inside her—tight and guarded—shifts, just a little.
She leans back onto the pillow. Her eyes still sting, but they're no longer leaking.
Maybe she's not ready to let go of the past yet. Maybe she never fully will.
But here, in this tiny exchange, in the quiet space that Pradeep offers without even realizing it, something softens.
Anaya (thinking):
He doesn't know how much this matters.
That someone remembered me right now.
Not the best version. Not the brave version. Just... me.
The loneliness doesn't vanish. It never does.
But it loses its sharpest edges.
And in a room full of shadows, I feel—just a little—seen.
She places the phone beside her pillow, still lit with his message. The light fades as the screen goes dark again, but the warmth lingers.
Outside, the wind rustles gently through the leaves. The night exhales around her.
And Anaya, for the first time in hours, doesn't feel like she has to hold everything alone.
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To be continued...