Chapter 3 — Echoes Between Us
The morning haze draped itself lazily over the city, blurring its sharp edges and softening the hum of everyday life. In the Malhotra household, the world was already alive with movement. Mehar stood by the window of her room, wrapped in a faded pink shawl, a mug of lukewarm coffee in her hand. She hadn't touched it. Her thoughts were elsewhere—caught between memory and possibility.
It had been exactly twenty-one days since she wrote the first letter to Aarav. She remembered the date, not because it mattered to him, but because it had become sacred to her. Her words, sealed and hidden away in an old shoebox under her bed, had grown like vines around her heart.
She never imagined they would change her. But they had.
She noticed him more now. The way he ran his fingers through his hair when he was frustrated. The way he cracked his knuckles just before he solved a problem. He had become more than a person. He was a presence. A rhythm. A part of her world.
And yet, he still didn't know.
Anaya burst into the room without knocking, as she always did, a whirlwind of chaos and warmth. "You're up early. Weird. What's going on?"
"Nothing." Mehar smiled softly, placing the untouched coffee on her desk.
"Liar. You get that look when you're thinking about something you're not ready to say out loud." Anaya grinned, plopping onto the bed. "Is it about Aarav again?"
Mehar froze for a second. "Why would it be?"
"Because I'm your best friend. I've seen the way you turn into a statue when he enters the room. You're so obvious."
Mehar rolled her eyes, but her cheeks gave her away.
Anaya laughed. "It's kind of adorable. You're like a character in one of those old-school love stories. Secret letters, stolen glances, unspoken feelings. So dramatic."
"You make it sound silly."
"Not silly. Just… hopelessly romantic. Which is worse."
They both laughed, but Mehar felt a twist in her chest. It was romantic, yes. But it was also painful. Because there was no happy ending here. Not one she could see.
Later that day, as the sky turned to gold, the three of them found themselves at the local bookstore. It was Aarav's idea. He had a project due and needed reference material. Anaya, ever the loyal sister, had dragged Mehar along.
The bookstore smelled of paper and old wood. Dust floated in the air like memories. Mehar wandered away from them, trailing her fingers along the spines of forgotten stories.
That's when she heard him.
"I think you'd like this one," Aarav said behind her.
She turned, startled. He was holding out a book. The cover was simple, a black-and-white sketch of a boy and girl sitting under a tree.
"Why do you think I'd like it?" she asked, her voice more steady than she felt.
He shrugged. "You seem like someone who pays attention to small things. This author writes like that."
She took the book, their fingers brushing. Just for a second. But it sent her heart into a frenzy.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He smiled. "Anytime."
She watched him walk away, unaware that he had just unknowingly stepped into one of her letters.
That night, she wrote again.
> Dear You,
You handed me a book today. You touched my hand. You didn't mean anything by it, but I did.
You noticed something about me. You said it like it was a fact, but it felt like a gift.
How do you do that? Make me feel seen without even trying?
I wish you knew how much it means.
She folded the letter carefully, kissed the corner of the page, and added it to the growing pile in the shoebox.
Mehar didn't know it yet, but that small encounter would ripple through her world. Because sometimes, the quietest moments hold the loudest echoes.
And love, when hidden long enough, starts to grow restless.