Two weeks passed without ceremony.
No dramatic announcements. No emotional milestones. Just days slipping into each other quietly, like they were afraid to be noticed. Ahmedabad slowly stopped feeling new, and I stopped counting how many times I got lost on the same roads. Life didn't become easier—but it became familiar. And familiarity has a strange way of pretending to be comfort.
Somewhere in between all that normalcy, a name kept drifting into my head uninvited.
Not loudly. Not insistently. Just… there. Aarav. In fragments. In moments that didn't make sense—when a laugh sounded familiar, when a voice in a crowd felt almost recognizable. I didn't dwell on it. Didn't question it. I told myself it was nothing, just leftover noise from a weekend that had passed.
Then, suddenly, we were packing again.
Kiara and Kabir had to go to their college in Bhavnagar for some work, and somehow the plan became obvious without being discussed. All three of us would go together. No debates. No chaos. Just a quiet, "We're leaving tomorrow," slipped into the evening like it was nothing.
I folded my clothes absentmindedly, my hands moving on autopilot while my thoughts wandered elsewhere. For no reason at all, I wondered—briefly, stupidly—if I'd run into anyone familiar. The thought disappeared as quickly as it came, dismissed before it could take shape.
We left early the next morning.
The bus ride was long, slow, and uncomfortable in the way all long journeys are. I sat by the window, earphones in, pretending to listen to music while actually overthinking my entire existence. Kiara slept almost instantly, Kabir scrolling through his phone beside her like this was routine.
I watched the road blur past, buildings turning into fields, fields into nothing. Somewhere between songs, my mind wandered again—back to conversations I hadn't had, words that hadn't been spoken. I shook my head slightly, annoyed at myself. Why was my brain like this?
Bhavnagar felt different the moment we arrived.
Not new. Not old. Just… familiar in a distant way. Like a place that already knew me but wasn't interested in proving it. We settled in quickly, the day passing in a blur of small tasks and conversations that didn't need remembering.
The next morning, everything shifted.
Not loudly. Not suddenly. Just enough for me to feel it in my chest before I could name it. Like the air had rearranged itself overnight, preparing for something I hadn't agreed to but was about to experience anyway.
We met them.
Aarav.
Rudra.
Advik.
Advik had come from Dwarka, Rudra and Aarav from Surat—three different cities, three different roads, somehow collapsing into the same moment. It was strange how people could travel such different distances and still end up standing right in front of you, like the universe had quietly synchronized its watch.
Introductions happened quickly.
The kind of interaction that should've passed without consequence. And yet, my chest tightened in a way I couldn't explain the second I saw Aarav.
He looked… the same.
Not transformed. Not dramatically different. Just him. Calm posture, familiar face, that quiet presence that never demanded attention yet somehow pulled it in anyway. He smiled when he saw everyone, nodded when our eyes met—and something in me faltered.
That was it.
No awkward silence. No lingering looks. No unspoken tension anyone else could notice. And somehow, that absence felt heavier than all the drama I had prepared myself for.
We walked into the college together.
The corridors were loud, filled with overlapping voices, footsteps echoing against tiled floors, laughter bouncing off walls that had seen too many last days. Everyone moved with purpose—papers to submit, work to finish, people to meet before time ran out.
I walked with them, surrounded by noise, yet strangely aware of only one presence beside me. Aarav didn't say anything. Neither did I. And in that silence, my thoughts grew louder than they had any right to be.
It was the last day.
You could feel it in the air—that odd mix of relief and nostalgia, even for a place that wasn't mine to miss. And somewhere between all of that, something unnamed settled quietly into my chest, unnoticed by me… but very much awake.
By afternoon, my body began to betray me in a way I didn't like.
It wasn't sharp pain this time. It was worse. A slow pressure, building behind my eyes, like something was tightening a grip it had used too often lately. I noticed it not because it hurt—but because it didn't go away. No matter how much water I drank or how still I stood.
Lately, these headaches had been coming more often.
That thought bothered me more than the pain itself.
Before anyone could notice my quiet withdrawal, the energy around us shifted. Phones came out, laughter grew louder, and someone announced, "Last day reels. Come on." Just like that, the college corridors turned into a mini shooting set—angles discussed, takes repeated, people laughing at their own dramatic expressions.
I stepped back without making a scene.
Near the edge of the ground, I found a plant—tall enough to cast real shade, thick enough to block the sun. I sat there quietly, letting the chaos happen without me, pretending I was just taking a break and not slowly folding inward.
The headache deepened.
Not pounding. Just heavy. Persistent. Like a reminder tapping from inside my skull. I closed my eyes for a moment, pressing my fingers lightly against my temples, trying not to acknowledge the uncomfortable truth forming in my chest—this is becoming normal.
The reels ended with cheers and laughter.
They came back toward me, out of breath, faces glowing, talking over one another. Someone flopped down near my feet, someone else complained about bad lighting, someone asked if the clips looked good.
Rudra stretched his arms like he was warming up for a dramatic performance. "Alright, idiots, gather up. Important announcement."
Kabir rolled his eyes immediately. "If this is another one of your 'emotional moments,' I'm leaving."
"Shut up," Rudra snapped, grinning. "It's the last day. If we leave without playing on the ground, I'll personally haunt all of you."
Aarav scoffed. "You already haunt us. You don't need a reason."
Rudra ignored him. "One final game. For memories. For brotherhood. For proving Kabir still can't catch a ball."
Kabir pointed at him. "You trip over your own legs, don't talk."
Advik chuckled softly. "He's annoying," he said, calm as ever, "but he's not wrong."
Rudra gasped. "Thank you. Validation from the only sane person here."
Aarav smirked. "Sane? He chose to be friends with you."
Kabir sighed, shaking his head. "Fine. One game. But if I die, Rudra's paying hospital bills."
Rudra laughed, already walking toward the ground. "Perfect. Let's go embarrass ourselves for the last time."
They moved together, loud and careless—completely unaware that somewhere close by, someone was quietly stepping into the first, unspoken chapter of a story none of them could see yet.
They all laughed, already turning toward the ground.
I didn't.
"I'll stay here," I said, softly but clearly.
Kiara turned to me immediately, concern slipping into her expression. "Misha, you okay?"
I nodded too fast. "Yeah. Just… tired. Go play."
She didn't look convinced. "You sure? You've been quiet."
"I'm fine," I said again, firmer this time. "Really. I'll just sit here."
One by one, they hesitated. Then excitement won. It always does on last days. They moved away toward the ground, voices fading into competitive shouting and laughter, while I stayed back under the shade.
Alone.
I leaned my head back against the trunk and closed my eyes.
The world felt distant—sounds muffled, light filtered through leaves. I focused on breathing, slow and careful, trying to ride out the discomfort without making it worse. My hands rested in my lap, fingers slightly curled, like they were bracing for something.
Footsteps approached.
Unhurried. Solid.
I opened my eyes.
Aarav stood there, a water bottle in his hand, clearly having stepped away from the ground for a drink. His eyes landed on me, and something in his expression shifted—subtle, almost unnoticeable, but real.
He didn't ask loudly.
He didn't joke.
He didn't pretend.
He just looked at me and asked, quietly,
"Are you okay?"
That was it.
Four words.
And somehow, they broke something open inside me.
My vision blurred before I could stop it. A tear slipped out—silent, traitorous—before I even realized I was reacting. I looked down quickly, embarrassed, swallowing the sudden tightness in my throat.
"Yes," I said quickly. Too quickly. "I'm fine."
My voice didn't match my answer.
Aarav didn't move for a second.
He stood there, holding the water bottle, eyes fixed on me—not staring, not intrusive, just… present. Like he was waiting for something I didn't know how to give.
"You don't look fine," he said gently.
I wiped my cheeks fast, forcing a laugh that sounded wrong even to me. "Migraine. It happens."
He nodded slowly, like he understood more than I'd explained.
"You should talk," he said after a pause. "It helps sometimes."
I looked up at him then.
Really looked.
There was no urgency in his voice. No pressure. Just an open invitation. A door cracked open, not pushed.
For a moment, I considered it.
Telling him how my head felt like it was splitting. How noise scared me sometimes. How crowds made my chest tighten. How I hated being the fragile one.
My lips parted—
Before either of us could say more, voices called out from the ground. Someone yelling his name. Someone asking where the water was.
The moment fractured.
I wiped my face quickly, forcing a smile, pretending the tear had never existed. Aarav glanced once more—longer this time—like he wanted to say something but chose not to.
Then he turned back.
"I'm okay," I said quickly, before anyone else could ask.
Kiara looked at me, unconvinced, her eyes searching my face for cracks I wasn't ready to show. Aarav stepped back slightly, his expression carefully neutral, but his gaze lingered on me for a second longer than it needed to.
We didn't speak again.
Not then.Not after.
The rest of the day folded itself up quietly. Laughter returned, lighter now, as if nothing had happened. Bags were collected, phones checked, half-hearted plans made—we should meet again, call when you reach—the kind everyone knows rarely survive reality.
Soon, it was time to leave.
People split into directions, routines pulling them back like invisible threads. We walked toward the exit together, the college behind us, the ground slowly emptying out, the air holding onto something unsaid.
When we reached the vehicles, I moved instinctively toward Kiara and sat behind her, too tired to think, too drained to notice anything except the familiar comfort of her presence.
That's when Aarav stepped closer.
He didn't make a scene. Didn't stop anyone. He just said a quiet goodbye to Kiara, his voice steady, easy. Then his eyes found mine.
No words.
Just a nod.
Simple. Polite. Unassuming.
And yet—it landed.
I nodded back before I could stop myself, something tight settling in my chest as he stepped away. No explanation. No closure. Just acknowledgment.
And then everyone left.
Different roads. Different directions. Different lives.
As we pulled away, I didn't look back. I didn't need to. The moment had already settled somewhere deep, quiet, and unresolved.
I didn't know it then—not in a way that felt important, not in a way that demanded attention.
There was no clear moment to point at, no single second that announced itself as the beginning. Everything still looked the same on the surface, ordinary and unchanged.
But something had shifted quietly, slipping into place without permission. No grand realization, no sudden clarity—just a subtle rearranging of emotions that didn't yet have words.
The kind of shift you only recognize much later, when you look back and realize things were never the same after that.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. Nothing about it asked to be remembered.
Only the feeling that something had been set in motion—
and it wouldn't be stopping anytime soon.
And, that was how it began—softly, unnoticed—just enough to matter, just enough to become the first page of something that would one day belong to Misha and Aarav.