The next few days passed in an odd calm. Dhruve was still trying to make sense of himself — the quietness, the small peace he felt lately. He didn't know if he was healing or just learning how to live with the scar.
Riya had become a small, steady part of his mornings. Not by grand gestures, but by those little things — remembering his order, teasing him about being too serious, scribbling tiny doodles on his napkin when she thought he wouldn't notice.
Sometimes she'd talk about her day; sometimes he'd just listen. He didn't need to speak much — her voice filled the empty spaces inside him.
That morning, when he entered the café, Riya was sitting by the window, typing something on her phone. She looked tired but smiled when she saw him.
"Hey, you're early today," she said.
He shrugged. "Didn't sleep much."
"Nightmares again?" she asked softly.
He blinked, surprised. "How'd you know?"
She gave him a knowing look. "You've got that look… like someone who fought with their thoughts all night and lost."
He smirked faintly. "You read people too easily."
"Maybe," she said. "But you're easy to read, Dhruve."
That made him pause. No one had called him easy to read before. He'd spent years building walls, learning how to wear masks so no one could tell what he was feeling. But with her — somehow — it was different.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Dreams just… replay things. I try not to think about them."
She didn't push further. Instead, she quietly got up, poured him his usual, and placed it in front of him. "Then don't. Think about this instead — you're alive, breathing, and your coffee's not terrible today."
That pulled a small chuckle from him. "Is that your idea of motivation?"
"Cheap but effective," she said, smiling.
An hour later, when her shift was almost over, she joined him at the table. Outside, the rain had returned — light drizzle tapping against the glass. The sky was dull gray, but somehow the scene felt peaceful.
Riya rested her chin on her hand and asked, "Do you ever wish things turned out differently?"
Dhruve thought for a long moment. "Yeah. All the time."
She nodded. "Me too. But maybe… if things didn't fall apart, we wouldn't be sitting here."
He looked at her — and for a moment, he saw it: a quiet sadness in her eyes, the same kind he carried.
"What about you?" he asked. "What's your story?"
She smiled a little. "Maybe another day. You'll just overthink it anyway."
He grinned faintly. "You think I overthink everything?"
"I know you do," she said, playful but soft.
He leaned back, exhaling. "You're not wrong."
As she got up to leave, she hesitated. "Hey… remember that line you wrote on the napkin?"
Dhruve looked up, pretending to think. "Which one?"
She smirked. "Don't act innocent. The one about me making the noise in your head quieter."
He raised a brow. "You kept that?"
"Maybe," she said, her tone playful but her expression gentle. "Or maybe I just remember it because… it felt honest."
He didn't reply. For a second, their eyes met — something unspoken passed between them.
Then she smiled, soft and warm. "See you tomorrow, Dhruve."
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Tomorrow."
That night, Dhruve sat on his balcony, watching the city lights blur through the mist. He thought about her — the way she smiled, the way she talked like she understood things she'd never lived.
He wasn't sure what this was — friendship, attraction, or maybe just two broken people trying to breathe again. But it made him feel human.
And for now, that was enough.
He picked up his phone and typed something in his notes app:
"Maybe healing doesn't come in waves. Maybe it comes in faces."
He stared at it for a long time before turning off the screen.