It wasn't raining that day. At least, not in the way people usually notice. No clouds bursting open, no thunder announcing grief, no cinematic downpour that poets romanticize and lovers misuse. But inside, something had already begun to rot. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a slow, silent decay—like pages turning in a book no one remembers starting.
There was a time when my life wasn't like this. A time when mornings meant something more than survival, when sunlight didn't feel like an interrogation, when breathing wasn't a habit but a choice. But that was before that day—the day everything stopped being a story and started becoming evidence.
I was late for class. Not accidentally. Intentionally. Because education, much like honesty, is overrated when you already think you understand how the world works. Or at least when you pretend to. I didn't go to university for lectures. I went there for her.
Avni.
Funny how people say love gives meaning to life. No one tells you it can also take it away—piece by piece, politely.
The cafeteria was crowded, as always. A graveyard of conversations pretending to be alive. People laughed too loudly, spoke too quickly, and lied too easily. Truth doesn't survive well in noisy environments. It suffocates. And yet, they call it friendship.
Someone once said that true friendship comes when the silence between two people is comfortable. I don't remember who said it. Maybe a philosopher. Maybe someone who had actually experienced it. Either way, no one in that cafeteria qualified.
I sat there waiting. Not for food. Not for class. For her. Because love, in its most pathetic form, is just waiting. Waiting for someone who already has you… to choose you again.
Minutes passed. Or maybe it was hours. Time behaves differently when you're emotionally unemployed. I checked my phone. Nothing. No message. No call. No apology.
Of course.
Why would there be?
Days ago, I overheard someone say I had a girlfriend. Funny thing is, that was the only place it sounded real. Because in reality, it felt more like a contract I never signed.
I stood up. Waiting had expired. Dignity followed soon after. I walked toward the garden, hoping for silence—the only honest thing left in that place.
"Harry! Long time, man!"
Of course. Silence never survives long enough.
I turned. A familiar stranger waved at me like we shared memories. He was from the history department. Or at least, that's what he claimed. People love associating themselves with history. Understanding it, however, is optional.
"Hey… yeah, been busy," I said.
Busy avoiding you, my mind added quietly.
"What about you?" I asked, a question I didn't care enough to mean.
"All good! Haven't met since the fest, right?"
Ah. So he was one of those. People who mistake moments for connections.
"Yeah, I think so," I replied, smiling out of habit rather than intent.
"Thanks for that day, bro. You helped me a lot," he said, shaking my hand like gratitude had weight.
Sometimes the smallest kindness becomes the biggest memory—for people who have nothing else.
"It was nothing," I said, and for once, I meant it.
"You're always so kind, man. Let's catch up sometime. I've got class now."
He left just like that.
I watched him go. Maybe he wasn't a jerk. Just… misinformed. Like most people.
I turned—and collided into someone.
Books fell first. Then silence.
"I'm so sorry!" she said quickly, bending down to pick them up. Her voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. Some voices don't demand attention. They earn it.
"No, it was my fault," I replied, kneeling to help.
And then I saw it.
Kafka on the Shore.
Of course.
I picked it up slowly. Not because it was heavy, but because it wasn't. Books like these never are. They don't weigh in grams. They weigh in damage.
Murakami doesn't write stories. He dissects loneliness and calls it fiction.
I glanced at her. Calm. Composed. But not empty.
Interesting.
"Kafka on the Shore," I said, handing it to her. "You've got good taste."
She looked at me, curious rather than impressed. "Have you read it?"
I smiled slightly—not out of charm, but recognition.
"If you only read the books that everyone else is reading…"
"…you can only think what everyone else is thinking," she completed.
I paused. Not because I was surprised, but because I wasn't.
"Huh," she said, a small smile forming. "Getting hit by a fellow reader wasn't on my to-do list today."
"Same here," I replied.
But inside, something shifted.
Because readers don't just read books. They read people. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was the one being read.
Virginia Woolf once wrote that books are the mirrors of the soul.
So I wondered—what does your soul look like, if this is the mirror you chose?
I stood up and offered my hand. "Harry."
She took it. Her grip wasn't firm, nor was it weak. It was certain.
"Anna," she said.
And just like that, something began. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But enough to be remembered.
"Anna from—"
"Harry, what's going on?"
Of course.
Good things rarely arrive alone. They bring interruption with them.
Avni.
Her hand slipped into mine—not gently, but possessively. Like ownership was a language she spoke fluently.
"Nothing," I said calmly. "She dropped her books."
Avni looked at Anna. Then at the book. Then back at Anna.
"Oh… she's one of those," she said, her voice laced with quiet arrogance. "She's just like you, isn't she?"
There it was. The subtle poison. Always present. Always disguised.
"Watch your mouth, Avni," I snapped.
I took the book from her and handed it back to Anna. "Sorry about that."
"It's okay," Anna said.
But her eyes didn't agree.
She left quietly, like she was never meant to stay.
And somehow… that bothered me more than it should have.
"Why do you even care about a stranger?" Avni asked.
I looked at her. Really looked this time.
Because sometimes, you don't notice the cage… until you try to move.
"Because not everyone is as heartless
as you," I said.
Silence followed.
Heavy. Uncomfortable. Real.
And for a brief moment, I wondered—
When did love start sounding like an argument?