Aarav hadn't seen Yuvaan in weeks. Since that walk near the metro station, life had returned to its usual weight. Rent was due. Clients delayed payments. The city didn't slow down. But something inside Aarav had.
There was a stillness he hadn't known before. The kind that comes not from peace, but from finally not running.
It was on a particularly grey Sunday that Yuvaan texted:
"Food. You. Me. No excuses."
The cafe they met at wasn't loud, but it wasn't quiet either. It had the smell of burnt beans and forgotten college dreams. Posters of old movies. One cracked chair. Familiar.
Yuvaan arrived chewing gum like it was currency.
"Did you know," he began, not even sitting, "that this place still doesn't serve cold coffee in August? Criminal."
Aarav didn't smile. He laughed.
They ordered whatever was cheap and filling. Sat near a window that rattled whenever a bus passed. They didn't talk about work. Or writing. Or love. At first.
---
Halfway through a shared plate of fries, Yuvaan wiped his hands on a napkin, looked straight at Aarav and asked:
"Are you happy?"
No buildup. No warning.
Just the kind of question that slices deeper the longer it hangs.
Aarav blinked. Then leaned back, glanced out the window for a moment, and said, quietly:
"I don't think I can say I'm happy. But I'm satisfied."
He paused for a moment, then added, "And that's more than I ever expected, honestly."
Yuvaan nodded, like he expected that. "That's a real answer. Most people say yes because they're afraid to admit they're not. Or worse, they're afraid they don't know."
Aarav looked at his hands. They were ink-stained, scarred slightly from a burn long ago, steady now.
"Satisfaction," he added, "feels like breathing after holding your breath for too long. It's not joy. But it's not suffocation either."
Yuvaan leaned back. "You write like someone who's bleeding slowly, but not dying. Not anymore."
Aarav met his gaze. There was no joke behind Yuvaan's eyes this time.
"I write because it's the only place I don't feel like I'm disappearing."
They let that sit.
---
They talked of old things after that. School. Stupid group projects. The time Aarav accidentally wore two different shoes to class. The way Niya once convinced a teacher that Aarav should be allowed to submit late work because he was "spiritually unwell."
It didn't hurt to talk about her anymore. That surprised him.
"She posted again," Yuvaan said quietly, scrolling through his phone. "Another story recommendation. Guess who the writer was?"
Aarav raised an eyebrow.
"You."
Aarav looked away.
"You gonna tell her?"
He shook his head. "No point."
"Closure?"
"No," Aarav said. "Just… some things aren't about being understood. They're about being felt. Even if the other person never knows who made them feel it."
Yuvaan nodded like he understood. Because he did.
---
Outside, the wind carried a scent of rain that hadn't fallen yet. They walked side by side without speaking for a while, passing an old bookstore that had long since closed. The sign was faded, but Aarav read the letters in his mind like they were still lit.
Before they parted ways, Aarav reached into his bag, pulled out a small sundial pendant on a thin bronze chain—simple, aged, quietly beautiful.
He held it out to Yuvaan.
"It was Niya's once. I kept it. I thought I needed it to remember something... or maybe to forget something. But now I think—maybe it's time someone else carries it."
Yuvaan looked at it, unsure. "You sure?"
Aarav nodded. "Timeless. But only working when there's light. You remind me of that."
Yuvaan took it, quietly.
They exchanged no promises. No dramatic goodbyes. Just a quiet pat on the shoulder and a look that said, *You'll be okay. I see you.*
---
Later, alone in his room, Aarav opened his laptop.
A blank document.
No title. Just the blinking cursor.
He began typing slowly:
*Who are we to blame anyone for not understanding us?*
*We never really know what unfolds in another person's life.*
*We are all selfish beings, orbiting our own needs, our own wounds. We look at others and think, "Why didn't they see me?" But maybe they were trying to see themselves. Maybe they were just surviving their own storms.*
*It's strange, isn't it? How much pain comes from silence. Not cruelty. Not rejection. Just... not being seen in the exact moment we needed to be.*
*Still, I think there's a kind of beauty in being unseen.*
*Because it teaches you to see.*
He stopped. Saved the file. No filename. Just saved.
Then, with a small smile that held no bitterness, no regret, only a soft acceptance...
He whispered to the empty room:
"I think I'm okay."