The sky had shifted to that tender hue of twilight when Karthik walked Ananya to the bus stop. The streets were quieter on Sundays, the hum of life softened like the comfort of a whispered lullaby.
They didn't speak much.
But their silence was no longer empty—it was shared, like breath between two people standing close in winter.
As they neared the corner, Karthik glanced at her. Ananya had her earphones in, one bud extended toward him.
He hesitated.
"Come on," she smiled. "I know you pretend not to like music, but I also know you hum that one Tamil song when you think no one's around."
Caught.
He smirked sheepishly and took the offered earbud. The song playing was a soft, old Ilaiyaraaja melody, one filled with longing and rain and poetry without words.
Karthik looked away, but Ananya turned slightly toward him.
"I used to play this song after fights with my parents," she said. "When everything felt loud and I couldn't explain why I was upset."
He nodded. "I do that too. I… write her name sometimes when I get overwhelmed."
"Your mom?"
He nodded again, slower this time. "I don't talk about her much."
Ananya didn't press.
Instead, she gently reached over and took his hand. "You don't have to talk. I'll just be here."
Something inside him cracked gently—like a frozen lake beginning to thaw.
The bus arrived, its headlights casting long shadows. She didn't board immediately. Her fingers still looped through his like a quiet promise.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said.
"Yeah."
But as she turned, he pulled her back—not urgently, just enough to make her pause.
"Ananya."
She turned, strands of hair brushing across her cheek. The orange streetlight lit her face like something from a dream.
"You remember that poem I wrote?" he asked.
"The one you wouldn't let me read?"
He nodded.
He took out a small piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it to her.
"For when you reach home," he said. "Not before."
She raised a curious eyebrow but took it anyway, tucking it gently into her diary.
And then she was gone.
He watched the bus disappear down the road, heart still thudding—not from fear, but from the fragile courage of giving someone a piece of yourself.
---
That night, Ananya sat on her bed, diary open.
She unfolded the note.
Karthik's handwriting was sharp, slightly uneven, like his thoughts always outran his pen.
> Your name is the silence after storms,
The peace between heartbeats,
The word I whisper without sound
In every room I once feared to enter.
If you ever wonder who you are to me—
Just know this:
You are the answer
My darkness never thought it deserved.
Ananya read it twice. Then again. Then again, holding the paper to her chest.
Tears touched her lashes—not from sadness, but from the rare joy of being seen so deeply, so clearly.
She didn't reply right away.
She simply whispered his name into the quiet.
And it felt like the most honest thing she had ever said.
---
END OF CHAPTER 128