It had been a while.
Not in years. But in moments that had quietly stacked — like forgotten postcards in a drawer. Aarav had filled those moments with half-finished drafts, cold coffee, missed opportunities, and a silence that had grown more familiar than noise. Enough distance had passed between him and Yuvaan that the last conversation they had felt like it belonged to different lives.
And yet, when he saw him again, it felt absurdly familiar.
Aarav stood near an old metro station, beside a rusted park bench with flaking green paint. The city moved behind him — louder than he remembered, yet strangely hollow. The sky hung heavy, not quite evening, not quite anything.
Yuvaan arrived ten minutes late.
He still jogged over with that unbothered grin. Still wore that navy jacket with the tear near the wrist. Still led with, "You look worse. That's reassuring. I thought you'd be successful and shiny by now. Would've messed with my worldview."
Aarav let out a breathy chuckle.
"You haven't changed."
"Well," Yuvaan shrugged, "the world did. I just stayed off the ride."
They sat. Silence followed. But not the kind that needed fixing.
---
"So," Yuvaan finally asked, his gaze following a kid chasing a plastic bag across the street. "Still doing your thing?"
Aarav nodded. "Still holding on to the pen."
"You're loyal. That's a writer thing, right?"
"No," Aarav murmured. "That's just... how I survive."
The clouds hung lower now. Long shadows stretched across the cracked pavement.
"You doing alright?" Yuvaan asked, no preamble.
Aarav considered a safe answer. Then said, "Not bad. Not whole. Somewhere in the blur."
"In the blur is where most of us live."
They let the quiet settle again.
---
Aarav broke it this time.
"You ever feel like we're just echoes in someone else's story?"
"Only when I sober up."
That pulled a laugh from Aarav — unfiltered, genuine.
Yuvaan smiled. "I used to think you were the quiet one. Observing, drifting. But turns out, you were the only one writing."
Aarav didn't respond. But something in his chest shifted.
"You still owe me dinner," Yuvaan added. "Can't remember why. Probably invented the debt."
"I owe you a lot more than that."
Yuvaan raised an eyebrow. "No thank yous. I'm allergic."
"I'll keep that in mind."
---
As they neared the main road, Yuvaan stopped.
"You know what I miss?"
Aarav glanced at him.
"The version of you that believed she saw you."
Aarav stared ahead. "She didn't."
"No. But back then, you wrote like she did."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. Just... exact.
"You still think about her?" Yuvaan asked.
Aarav hesitated. "Less often. But more deeply."
---
They parted ways near a signal. No dramatic farewell. Just a lazy salute from Yuvaan and a quiet nod from Aarav.
That night, Aarav stepped into his dim flat. He didn't bother with the lights. The fan clicked overhead, and the wind whispered through the cracked window.
He reached for a notebook — not the polished one. The other one. The one stained with hesitation.
On the next page, he wrote:
*Some people leave. Some return. And some linger just long enough to remind you who you were trying to become.*
He didn't write about Niya.
He wrote about Yuvaan.
About laughter that didn't feel borrowed.
About silence that didn't sting.
And about a friendship that hadn't died. Just paused.
He closed the notebook.
And for the first time in a long while, felt like maybe he wasn't writing to be seen — but because he finally was.
The pen didn't feel heavy tonight.
And that — that was something.