The sky over Dubai glimmered like a distant dream as the plane touched down. Diya leaned her head against the window, a strange calm washing over her. The last few days had been a storm—but here, in the glow of familiarity, she let herself breathe.
Her mom met her at the airport with a tight hug and a bright smile. "You've lost weight," she said immediately, poking Diya's cheek. "And gained a few stress lines."
Diya laughed, the first real laugh in days. "College life," she said simply.
Back home, the scent of her favorite incense lingered in the air. Her room was just as she'd left it, a time capsule of the girl she was before college. But now, she felt different. Older. Tired. Stronger—maybe.
Later that evening, as they unpacked her bags, Diya's mom held up a wrapped gift.
"This is for Maddy," she said casually. "I saw it and thought he'd look good in this color."
Diya blinked in surprise. "Mom…"
Her mother shrugged. "What? You told me enough about him. He's been a big part of your life, hasn't he?"
Diya looked at the shirt—midnight blue, soft cotton, understated. Exactly his style. Her throat tightened, but she smiled. "Yeah. He has."
To clear her mind, they dressed up and headed to a cozy resto-bar Diya loved. It wasn't wild or loud—just enough music and warmth to feel alive. Over mocktails and finger food, they talked about college, hostel chaos, friends, and how bad the canteen food really was.
But even as she smiled and shared stories, Maddy's absence tugged quietly at her thoughts.
— — —
Far away, in his childhood bedroom, Maddy sat on his bed, staring at the wall.
His suitcase lay half-unpacked. The shirt Diya had gifted him was folded carefully at the top. It still had that faint scent—something between her perfume and the air-conditioned chill of the train station.
He hadn't cried since that morning. He'd shut down, withdrawn into himself, thinking and overthinking.
Why had it hurt so much when she turned away that day?
He told her she could move on. That she shouldn't hope. That he needed time.
And yet, the second she gave him space, the emptiness felt unbearable.
Maddy ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. He didn't want to give her false promises. He didn't know what he was ready for. But he knew he hated the idea of someone else holding her when she cried. He hated imagining Harsh replacing him in stories or memories.
He picked up his phone—new one, borrowed SIM—and typed, deleted, retyped a message.
In the end, he didn't send it.
Because what could he say?
He missed her.
But was that enough?
Not yet. But maybe soon.
And for now, he just needed to figure out how to be honest—not with her, but with himself.