A Recap of Chapter 12
Maira, with her paper-folded confessions, opened a new chapter in Krish's life. Through each silent letter she left for him — tucked in his notebooks or dropped subtly during walks — she spoke her heart, igniting a quiet warmth within him. Though Krish never replied, he read each word with growing emotion. Her words made him draw again, dream again, and feel again. But most importantly, they made him seen. And when she confessed her feelings in a heartfelt letter, Krish — still wrapped in hesitation and fear — offered a quiet response: a folded page with a few honest lines.
And thus began a delicate bond, fragile as the pages of her letters, yet strong enough to withstand the silence between them.
The Day After
The next morning, Krish walked into college with a clouded mind. He didn't greet anyone, didn't lift his gaze. His eyes, usually alert, were lowered. His walk slow, like someone trying to delay facing a truth waiting just around the corner.
Raghav entered class a few minutes later. He was new, freshly transferred, and unlike Krish, carried the casual confidence of someone used to making friends.
Noticing Krish's withdrawn demeanor, Raghav sat beside him.
"Hey... are you okay?" he asked gently.
Krish nodded without a word.
"You sure? You look like you've been up all night overthinking the universe."
Krish gave a tiny smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. Raghav leaned closer.
"I don't know you yet," he said, "but I've seen that look in the mirror. You're holding something in. If you feel like talking, I'm right here."
Krish hesitated. For a long time. The class continued around them, laughter and lectures melting into background noise. Then finally, Krish whispered, "Can we talk outside?"
And there, under the neem tree in the back courtyard, Krish spoke. He told Raghav everything — about Maira's letters, her quiet confession, his own confusion, his fears, and how deeply her words had impacted him.
Raghav listened without interrupting.
When Krish finished, Raghav smiled and said "Bro, if even half of what you just said is true, you've got something real. Don't keep hiding behind silence. Talk to her. At least let her see what she means to you."
Krish breathed in. It felt like the first real breath he'd taken in weeks. "Okay," he said and asked "but when will i do that"
Raghav replied nicely"Today."
The Auto Ride
That evening, Krish waited near the auto stand outside the college gates. Maira always took the same rickshaw, and the driver was someone familiar—an old man Krish's family knew from the neighborhood.
As expected, Maira appeared with her books hugged tightly to her chest. She stopped briefly at the rickshaw, exchanging pleasantries with the driver.
Krish stepped forward.
Maira blinked in surprise. "Krish?"
He glanced at the driver. "Broo, is it okay if we both ride today?"
Unfortunately, Maira's auto driver is one of the well-known person of krish.
The driver smiled knowingly. "Of course."
Inside the rickshaw, the world outside blurred as the three-wheeled vehicle moved. Inside, it felt like another world.
Krish looked at Maira. "I read all your letters."
She smiled gently, not interrupting.
"I never replied... not because I didn't want to. I just didn't know how. But today, I want to try."
He reached into his bag and handed her a folded page.
It read:
"Every letter of yours was a mirror. And I saw parts of myself I didn't know existed. Thank you for waiting. I think I'm ready to speak."
Maira didn't say much. She didn't need to. Her smile—pure and soft—said everything.
The Routine of Togetherness
From that day on, the auto became their sanctuary. Each evening, after classes, they would ride together. At first, Maira did most of the talking, gently sharing stories of her home, her dreams, her love for Urdu poetry, her favorite books and every part of her life.
Krish listened, slowly opening up. He spoke of his mother, the pressure of expectations, his quiet passions, his hidden scars.
And in those brief ten-minute rides, a lifetime's worth of connection bloomed.
One day, she handed him a leaf she had picked up from the garden behind the college. On it was a doodle of a little boy holding an umbrella under falling hearts.
"You make silence feel less lonely," she said.
Krish kept that leaf between the pages of his sketchbook, like a secret pressed into time.
The Poem She Read Aloud
One Saturday afternoon, when the campus was quiet and the library dimly lit, Maira invited Krish to a quiet corner.
"Today, I didn't write a letter," she said, pulling out a folded page. "I wrote you a poem. And this time... I want to read it to you myself."
Krish looked at her, surprised but silent.
She unfolded the page and read, her voice low and soft:
To the Quiet One
— by Maira
You don't speak much, yet your silence says more.
Like calm waves hiding a deep ocean floor.
I saw your soul in every pause you gave,
A storm tucked gently behind eyes so brave.
And in your stillness, I found my home.
When she finished, the silence lingered. Krish looked at her, his eyes misty.
"That… that's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me," he said softly with some happy tears from his eyes.
He reached across the table and gently took the poem from her hands—not to fold and hide, but to keep, like something sacred.
A Growing Friendship
Raghav too, became a constant in their lives. He and Maira found a natural friendship—one filled with teasing, thoughtful debates, and shared study sessions. Unlike the cliched love triangles of stories, this was real—simple and full of mutual respect.
Raghav once told Krish,
"She's not just your person. She's a good person. Hold on to her."
They would often sit as a trio under the Gulmohar tree beside the college canteen, laughing over samosas and soda, creating a trio that felt like home.
The Birthdays
January arrived with golden sunlight and cooler evenings. Their birthdays, as fate would have it, fell just ten days apart — Maira's first.
Krish had been saving for a month. He bought her a cute Teddy bear doll and a delicate silver pendant shaped like a crescent moon — symbolic of her name, her spirit, and her quiet strength.
He didn't gift it publicly. Instead, he left it inside her bag during a quiet study hour, with a note:
"For the girl who taught me that silence can speak. Happy Birthday, Maira."
She found it the same evening and sent him a message through Raghav:
"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever received."
Ten days later, it was Krish's birthday. He wasn't expecting anything from anyone. But after their auto ride, just as he was about to get off, Maira held his hand.
"Wait," she whispered.
He turned.
Before he could process, she leaned forward and gently placed a kiss on his cheek. Her arms wrapped around him briefly—warm, steady, safe.
His world stopped.
She whispered, "Happy Birthday, Krish."
He couldn't speak. Couldn't move.
He didn't need to.
Because in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the noise of the streets, not the struggles at home, not the scars of his past.
Only the quiet echo of her heartbeat against his chest. Only the scent of jasmine in her hair. Only the way her touch melted all his walls.
Later that night, he wrote in his sketchbook:
"Her touch didn't just stay on my skin... it stayed in every space where loneliness once lived."
The Months That Followed
The next three months unfolded like a warm breeze after a long storm. Krish and Maira continued their daily rides, their conversations weaving tighter threads around their bond. What began as casual chats turned into deep conversations about their pasts, their hopes, their fears.
On rainy days, they would sit in the college library, sharing a single bench by the window. Maira would rest her head on her arms, eyes closed, while Krish sketched her in silence. She never asked to see the drawings. He never showed. But they both knew what they meant.
At lunch breaks, they didn't talk much. But they didn't need to. Maira would share her food, placing an extra spoon into his tiffin without asking. Krish, in turn, would pass her a piece of chocolate from his pocket—always the same brand she once said she loved.
They left little surprises for each other. A small poem folded into his math textbook. A rough pencil sketch of a leaf placed inside her English notes. Some days they exchanged nothing at all but glances that lasted just long enough to speak what words couldn't.
Raghav, ever the bridge between them, often joked, "You two talk in a language nobody else speaks."
In the evenings, they would sometimes walk a little distance before reaching the auto stand. If the sun was still out, they'd stop under the same Gulmohar tree where they'd once sat with Raghav. There, she once gifted him a keychain shaped like a quill, saying, "So you always remember your voice matters."
They shared stories—some silly, some sad. Maira told him how her father once scared away a boy who sent her a rose. Krish shared how his mother still packed an extra lunch every day, just in case someone needed it.
On Fridays, when classes ended early, they'd sneak into the old music room and sit in the corner, not to play but just to listen to the faint echo of past melodies. Maira would hum, and Krish would close his eyes. It felt like a song only they could hear.
Every moment, every memory, was stitched carefully into a quiet, unfolding love.
Their relationship wasn't loud. It was honest. It was real.
But deep in Krish's heart, he knew life wouldn't always be this calm.
The storm that brewed at home was still there.
And someday, he would have to choose.
Between love and duty. Between self and sacrifice.
But for now, he let himself fall.
For the first time, without fear.
And Maira… she caught him, every time.
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To be continued...