That night moved very slowly. The hands of the clock seemed to move, yet time itself refused to go forward. Krishna sat leaning against the wall for a long while without moving. He knew exactly where his story had stopped—at the moment he spoke of Radha's accident. That was not a story meant to end there. But Janaki had fallen asleep. Not because she was careless, but because listening itself carries weight. He did not blame her. Sometimes, hearing the truth is enough to push a person into sleep.
When morning light arrived, Krishna's head felt heavy. He couldn't even remember whether he had slept or not. He went into the kitchen and drank some water. Then he looked toward the wall. The same wall. Yet after the previous night, it felt farther away. The emptiness that forms when words stop is far more frightening than the emptiness that exists before words begin. He tried to walk through that emptiness.
Until evening, he did not go near the wall. He kept himself busy—working, arranging the house, finding small tasks to distract himself. But inside him, a doubt slowly formed. Had Janaki truly heard his story? Or had she only pretended to listen? He knew the doubt was unnecessary. Still, it remained—like a small stone. Small enough to remove. But sharp enough to wound if left there.
At night, he finally returned to the wall. This time, he didn't call her as casually as usual. He paused before speaking.
"Janaki…"
After a moment, her voice came.
"Yes… Krishna."
There was tiredness in her voice. But there was no distance. That gave him some relief.
"Last night…" he began.
"I heard," she said, cutting in.
The words came too quickly. That speed stopped him.
"All of it?" he asked.
The question surprised even him. He did not like doubting himself like this. But this bond—standing between the wall—rested entirely on words. If there was no truth in the words, what remained?
"I heard," Janaki said again. This time more slowly.
"That you met in college, that you worked together, that you lost her."
There was truth in those words. But not completeness. Krishna recognized it instantly. The bones of the story were there—but not the flesh. He remained silent.
She continued.
"Yesterday I was very tired," Janaki said. "You kept talking. I kept listening. But at some point… I fell asleep."
There was a hint of guilt at the end of her sentence. But it wasn't heavy. She didn't hide it. There was no need to.
Krishna smiled. It wasn't a smile born of pain. It was a smile of understanding.
"It's okay," he said. And it truly was. He had wanted to tell his story to someone. Whether she heard it fully or not was secondary. Telling it was what he needed.
"Some parts not being heard is probably a good thing," he added. "They're very heavy."
Janaki fell silent for a moment. Then she said,
"You can tell it again. If you want."
There was an invitation in that sentence. No pressure. Krishna liked it very much. It wasn't about retelling the story—it was about telling it when he was ready. That was respect.
That night, the two of them didn't speak much. But the silence was no longer uncomfortable. It felt like an agreement.
We are not whole. And yet, we are here.
Even with the wall between them, it felt close.
Still, a small thorn remained inside Krishna. Janaki had pretended she heard everything. Why? Did she want to avoid hurting him? Or did she not want to admit her own exhaustion? He did not search for answers. Because something else became clear to him—
Janaki, too, was hiding something.
Just as she hadn't fully heard his story, she hadn't fully told hers.
That night, a strange sound came from the wall. Not in the middle of their conversation. Not between words. At the end. As if someone moved. Krishna became alert.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Nothing," Janaki replied immediately. Too immediately.
That speed gave him the same feeling again—not a lie, but not the whole truth either.
Before going to sleep, Krishna stared at the wall and thought. Was this bond truly built only on words? Or was there another wall behind this wall? He stopped the thought there. Some questions don't yield answers when asked too early. Time brings them out.
That night, in Flat Number 369, one thing became clear.
Krishna's story had not been fully heard.
Janaki's story had not yet been told.
Between the two, the wall stood silently.
Listening.
To everything.
That night, the silence near the wall was not ordinary. It wasn't the pause that comes between words, nor the quiet that forms before thought. It was the silence that follows a decision. Krishna could feel it clearly. Janaki was going to speak tonight. Not him—her. Her story. The story she had hidden between words, wrapped inside silence until now.
"Tonight… I will talk," Janaki said.
There was no hesitation in her voice. It sounded as though she had come prepared.
Krishna said nothing. He didn't ask. He didn't even say tell me. Because some stories don't ask for permission. When they want to come out, our only role is to listen. He leaned against the wall, slowed his breathing, emptied his mind, and prepared himself to hear.
"I fell in love in college too…"
That very first sentence made him flinch. He didn't speak, but something shifted inside him. She continued.
"His name is Ram."
"We weren't in the same department," Janaki said. "But we were on the same campus. He was into research. Not very talkative. But when he did speak… everything was clear."
Her words felt familiar. Too familiar. They were the same words he had used to describe Radha. But Krishna remained silent.
"The first time we spoke was in the library," Janaki said. "He was looking at a map and had marked something wrong. I corrected him."
Krishna closed his eyes.
This scene had already happened in his life.
The same library.
The same words.
The same smile.
He focused on his breathing. This could be coincidence. But coincidence does not arrange itself this precisely.
Janaki told her story slowly. Walks across campus. Coffee in the canteen. Conversations near the ground in the evenings. Love was never announced. It became a habit. A feeling of emptiness whenever the other was absent. There was no exaggeration in her words. That was what made it terrifying.
Because the story… was Krishna's story.
"Research was his life," Janaki said. "Not history—science. But when he spoke about ancient things… his eyes would light up."
Krishna pressed his toes into the floor. Listening was becoming difficult. Her story wasn't walking beside his memories—it was walking over them. Not on a new path. On the same one. At the same turns.
"Once, he told me about a cave," Janaki said.
At that sentence, even the air between the wall felt heavier.
"He said there was something inside it. Something that should never come out."
Krishna could no longer stay silent.
"Janaki…" he called.
She didn't stop.
"Listen," she said.
There was no fear in that word. Only strength.
"When he spoke about the cave, I laughed," Janaki said. "He laughed too. But even then, I felt something was hidden in that smile." She paused. "After that, time changed. He began spending more time outside. He grew quieter. But the love never reduced."
Breathing was now hard for Krishna.
This was not coincidence.
This was reflection.
Two worlds had written the same story in the same way. But why?
He had no answers. Only the responsibility to listen.
"We talked about marriage," Janaki said.
Her voice trembled slightly.
"We even looked at a house. This very one. I liked the number too."
Krishna's heart began to pound.
"What number?" he asked, very softly.
"369."
That number didn't split the wall.
It split time.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. This was not comfortable silence. It was silence filled with fear. Both leaned against the same wall—but now it felt thin. Not made of bricks, but of memories.
Janaki spoke again.
"The story you told yesterday… that is my story."
There was no accusation in her voice. Only disbelief.
"I pretended to hear your story because what I was hearing… was my own life."
Krishna opened his eyes and looked at the wall. It no longer looked like a wall. It looked like a mirror. On one side—him. On the other—him again. With different names. A different timeline.
"I don't understand," he said. It was an admission.
"Neither do I," Janaki replied. "But it's real."
That night, in Flat Number 369, something changed completely. The friendship of words was no longer ordinary. It had turned into a question.
Who are these two people?
What is this wall?
Why has the same story been written twice?
The wall stood silent.
But it was no longer an ordinary silence.
It was a boundary.
Between two worlds.