July 6, 2025 – Night
Some letters feel like replies. This one didn't. It felt like a confession.
Reyansh sat cross-legged on his bed, dim lights around him, the window cracked open. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once. Someone honked twice. The city, alive. But his world had narrowed to a small glowing screen — and her name.
He'd read her letter earlier that afternoon. Twice. And now, hours later, he was writing back… slower than usual.
> Because this one mattered.
There was something in Tara's words — unguarded, unsure, but honest — that made his heart ache in a strangely comforting way. She said silence didn't scare her when someone understood it.
> "Then maybe I'll sit with you in silence too," he thought, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
But he didn't send that yet. Not because it wasn't true. But because it was too true — and he wasn't sure if it was time to say it.
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✉️ Letter 9 — From Reyansh
Sent: July 6, 2025 – 10:11 PM
Tara,
Funny how your letter felt like a pause button — in the best way. You asked about gaming — and maybe it's more than an escape. It's a way to exist in worlds where I have control. Where I can lose and restart. Where the past doesn't define the next move — just skill and presence.
But unlike games, life doesn't come with a "restart from checkpoint" option, does it? Sometimes I wish it did.
Anyway — you mentioned Arijit Singh… Do you ever get that strange ache when a song says something you never told anyone — but it says it in exactly your words? Music does do that. It listens when people don't.
Also, I can picture you staring out the window under that grey sky. And I don't know why, but I hope you smiled anyway. Even if just for a second.
You said "we don't have to pretend here." And I want you to know — you don't. I like this version of you — chai-loving, Arijit-singing, almost-poetic when she's not trying to be.
One more thing: I'm not really used to this. Writing to someone I haven't met, and feeling like I already know the rhythm of their silence. But here I am. Still writing. Still hoping you reply.
Yours from the grey side of the window,
— Rey
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Narrator Voice (continued)
This was new. Not love. Not a crush. But the space before both. Where every message was a maybe. Where vulnerability didn't scream — it whispered. And both of them? They were listening closely now.