"The thing about losing someone is—you don't really notice it until the silence feels heavier than the goodbye."
They say time can heal any wound, whether emotional or physical—and I truly hoped that was the case. The school bell rang suddenly, snapping everyone in class out of their thoughts.
I stood up and left with the crowd, saying goodbye to 9th class, letting myself be carried into the hot summer afternoon. It should have felt like any other day—but something about it felt off. I remembered something our homeroom teacher said: "Have you ever tried talking to your inner self—your soul?"
"Inner self, huh?"
It was meant to be a motivational line, the kind that usually leads to a discussion. But to me, it sounded like something far more personal—yet oddly distant:
"Remember who you used to be, before everything fell apart?"
"Ahh..."
It's really been four long years.
Still, it felt like eons had passed.
Now I live a life the same as that of an average middle school kid—study, eat, sleep, repeat. It sure is quite peaceful, but for some reason I still prefer that unpredictable, ever-changing life.
I met Ciel in the earliest of my childhood. We were epistemophilic, which led us to set out on an odyssey in pursuit of knowing anything and everything that this omniverse can provide us.
Until one day we were separated by silence.
"Argh."
Strange...
It took surprisingly less time to reach home today.
"Mom, I'm back."
"How was your day, Renji?"
"Normal, just like every other day, Mom."
"Well, go wash up and come eat something. You look tired and quite hungry today."
"Yes, Mom."
I think even my parents have gotten used to this version of me—the quiet, tired one, who's always just fine.
Mom still asks, though.
"Everything alright?" she'll say, pretending like it's casual.
And I nod like it's muscle memory. Every time.
Sometimes, I wish I'd just blurt it all out. Just once.
Then maybe—just maybe—it'll make it easier.
But then the thought turns heavy.
Like opening up would mean unsealing something I've worked too hard to bury.
So I don't. I never do.
Maybe one day.
Maybe when I've become what we dreamed of.
Though maybe it's better this way—a secret buried so deep, it'll stay with me all the way to the afterlife.
When I felt a bit better after getting fresh, the biggest question arose...
"What will I get to eat?"
Though it didn't take long to realize it.
Dal chawal. Again.
I think I've eaten this more than I've eaten anything else in life.
It's... fine.
Fills the stomach. Better than those leafy stacks of hay.
But Mom smiles when she sees me eat it, so I keep chewing.
Thereafter, I went upstairs, where homework stared at me like a bored enemy.
I finished most of it with a half-functioning brain, then took my usual 20-minute break.
Running around the house. Jumping over furniture. Parkour across an invisible battlefield.
Preparation, I say.
For what?
No clue. But something. Anything. Maybe everything. I suppose.
Then came the pen drills.
Yes—pens.
Why? Because The Greatest Assassin once said,
"Pens are the deadliest weapon used by everyone, known to very few."
Cool, right?
I don't even know where I read that. Probably some fictional assassin's autobiography.
Yeah, they're only.
I twirled it between my fingers like I was using swords.
Then, combat training: punches to Mr. Wall.
The long-awaited part, maybe.
Hands, elbows, knees—everything.
My wall's probably filing a complaint against me somewhere.
But it keeps me sharp. Or so I tell myself.
Anyway, whatever. Who cares?
Maybe me.
If no one else.
But again, now comes the hard part.
Post-war recovery, i.e., studies.
Everything except Hindi.
Not because I hate it. I just... hate writing in it.
Reading stories? Beautiful.
Writing essays? Torture.
So, naturally, I "accidentally" get distracted by random rabbit holes and obscure facts no one asked for.
Just because sometimes I find something that feels like a spark.
And when I do, my brain goes:
"That—right there—is something I absolutely have to store. ASAP. Like, cosmic-level importance."
Like knowing it might maybe make me more real. Maybe like Ciel would nod in approval from wherever he is.
And finally, after all the work.
When I'm tired of it all—
Fictions and stories come in clutch to save the already spoiled day.
Because fictions don't lie.
Fictions don't leave.
Fictions... keep you company.
Even when people don't.
Dusk crept in, brushing the world with faded, worn-out gold—like a memory you dare not interrupt, a kind of light that asked only for stillness, not answers.
It was an odd hour to be reading—but the silence, the wind, even the golden light, everything so connected, might be it wanted to tell something.
The still air, the soft hum of distant birds, the quiet rustle of pages—
It felt like the universe had decided, just for a moment:
"Here. Be still. Let the story hold you."
And so he read.
Smiling.
Laughing.
But the laughter felt... practiced.
Not like joy—more like muscle memory.
The way your fingers remember chords you haven't played in years.
The way your legs move on a familiar staircase in the dark.
It wasn't fake—just empty.
Like an old echo trying to pass, waiting for someone to reply with laughter.
"Ahh"
"That was some nice story, man."
It would be a pretty good addition to Anemara.
I could almost hear Ciel say, "You're still reading trash, huh?"
Suddenly there is a change of atmosphere, an outer force disrupting my peace.
"Renji, come to eat; the dinner is on the table."
"On the way, Mom."
Downstairs, Dad was half-watching the news. Mom stood at the stove, flipping chapatis in rhythm.
I slid onto the sofa beside Dad, pretending to care about the anchor's urgent voice.
Soon, Mom brought over the food.
Dal and chapati.
For a second, I dared to hope for something else.
But one look at the other option—Calabash—and I pulled my hope right back where it belonged.
Dinner went as expected.
Dad asked about school, homework, and studies. I replied like I always did—just enough to sound engaged.
It was fine. I guess.
"Thanks, Mom," I said as I stood. "Food was great. I'm heading to bed. Bit tired today."
"Goodnight, Dad."
"Goodnight, Mom."
"Goodnight," they replied—but something in it... carried a pinch of worry.
Small. Barely there. But I caught it.
I walked upstairs, one step at a time.
They creaked like they always did—same wood, same rhythm. But somehow today, every step felt... heavier.
Not because I was tired, no.
But because I was thinking about him again.
Ciel.
I wonder what it would've been like if he were still here.
Would we still do the same stupid things?
Would we still race to finish our homework, then build forts out of books and blankets like they were castles in some imaginary land?
Probably.
Or maybe we'd be different now.
Maybe we'd argue more or fall silent at different things.
Maybe we wouldn't laugh at the same jokes anymore.
"Argh."
I really, really hate that I have to wonder.
My room looked exactly how I left it.
Desk stacked. Light slightly flickering.
The same pen I trained with resting like a sword at my side.
Was I expecting something to be different?
Was I expecting someone to be here, waiting?
The air felt off. Not heavy—just... still.
Like it had been holding something in all day, and now it exhaled with me.
I collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling fan, letting it spin my thoughts in circles.
Does Ciel miss me too?
Is there a version of this exact moment where he's lying somewhere, wondering about me?
Does he remember how we used to name constellations our own way?
How we once decided Pluto was a planet just because we felt bad for it?
How we swore we'd learn everything the world could teach us—and then some?
Does he remember... or
Did he move on?
Sometimes I imagine he might just be on the other side of some invisible wall.
Just out of reach.
Like if I stretch far enough, or say the right word, or think hard enough, he'll just... appear.
Ciel.
I whispered his name into the dim room.
It felt like calling into a well.
You drop the word "wait" and hope something echoes back.
But sadly enough, nothing came.
Silence. It was all I could hear.
I turned to my side, grabbing the soft corner of the blanket and pulling it over my head like I used to when we'd camp indoors and pretend the world outside didn't exist.
Back then, we thought we could build a world inside books.
And honestly? We kind of did it inside Anemara.
I wonder if he still thinks about that world.
A place where knowledge was magic, and dreams weren't lies, but bridges.
Where every mystery had a purpose, and every answer opened another door.
What would he be doing there now?
Mapping new stars?
Arguing with fictional kings?
Writing laws for sentient clouds?
Sometimes, I think he's still there.
Still exploring. Still learning.
And maybe... he got stuck. Or lost. Or choose to stay.
While I was left behind.
And even though I'm here, pretending to live normally—
Eating dal chawal, dodging essays, doing pen spins, and punching walls— trying everything I could do to act like a normal child. But still—
A part of me is still with him.
Still waiting in Anemara.
Would we still be the same if he came back?
Would we instantly click again?
Or would there be an awkward silence first?
Like we'd grown into people the other didn't recognize?
Maybe we'd laugh like nothing changed.
Or maybe we'd smile sadly, knowing everything had.
That's the fear, I think.
That even if he returns, we won't go back to that.
To who we were.
But... maybe that's okay.
Maybe we're meant to find new versions of ourselves—still together, still dreaming, just not in the same way.
I stared at the ceiling again.
The fan kept spinning. The world kept turning.
And I stayed there—trapped between sleep and memory.
"I miss you," I murmured, my voice barely louder than a breath.
"Wherever you are. Whatever you're doing."
And I do. Every single day.
It's not the loud kind of missing.
Not the one that breaks things or shouts or cries.
It's the kind that sits quietly inside your chest, like a ghost reading over your shoulder.
Like a silent partner to every moment.
I closed my eyes as I imagined him beside me, book in hand, lamp between us, both too stubborn to sleep until we finished one more chapter.
I imagined he'd lean over and say,
"Hey... you didn't fold that page properly."
And I'd roll my eyes like always and fix it.
"Goodnight, Ciel," I whispered, staring into the dark.
Not expecting an answer.
Not hoping for a miracle.
Just saying it.
Because maybe...
just maybe
Someone will whisper it back one night.
And I'll know.
I turned to the other side of the bed, the part that always stayed cold. Like it was waiting too.
Somewhere, in that quiet not-quite-sleep, I thought I heard pages turning.
Just once.
Before sleep took me, my fingers curled like they were searching for a pen.
Maybe the silence wasn't empty after all.
Morning hadn't arrived yet, but something pulled me out of sleep.
Not a sound. Not a dream. Just... a feeling.
The trees outside tilted like they were bowing to some invisible king.
The clouds formed a shape too familiar—like that drifting island we once mapped.
Like the world had tilted an inch to the left side or maybe right or anyway.
My heart was still racing from something I couldn't remember.
Stars?
Voices?
Ciel?
Fragments of the dream clung to me like fog.
I saw our book fort again. The constellations we named.
The pages of Anemara flipping on their own.
His voice—distant but calm—saying something I couldn't catch.
I sat up. Hands cold.
The room was dark, but not silent.
The fan hummed above, soft and steady—like a heartbeat out of sync with mine.
The other side of the bed stayed cold. Like it was waiting too.
Then it hit. A strange pull I got.
Sudden, like muscles finding some old rhythm.
I reached for the notebook beside me and flipped to a blank page.
Didn't even turn on the light.
I just started writing.
Words poured out—half-dream, half-memory.
Descriptions. Names. Maps.
A place I never truly left—only wandered too far from.
Now, scribbled back into being in the dark.
Not for school. Not for anyone.
Just so I wouldn't forget the way again.
Somewhere in those lines, I felt him.
Not a memory. Not a ghost. Just... presence.
Not Ciel, the friend I lost.
But maybe—Ciel, the explorer of Anemara.
He might still be there, somewhere in Anemara I could never quite reach.
The one still wandering deeper, charting places I haven't found yet.
And maybe, just maybe...
He's still waiting.
Not behind.
Not ahead.
Just... out there.
Before I lay down again, I glanced at the last word I'd written.
Didn't even know what it meant.
But it felt right.
Sleep didn't return.
But the silence didn't feel empty anymore.