The night after Anya kissed him, Dhruve barely slept.It wasn't the kiss that kept him awake — it was what it meant. Or maybe, what it didn't.
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling fan slicing slow shadows over his room. Every turn sounded like a thought he couldn't silence. You're moving on. You shouldn't be. You deserve to. You don't.
"Shut up," he muttered to himself. But silence didn't listen.
By morning, he'd convinced himself it was nothing. Just a small gesture from someone who understood him. No strings. No meanings. No ghosts attached.
That illusion lasted until he met Anya at the café later that afternoon. She smiled when she saw him — that careless, sunshine kind of smile that could make any day less cruel.
"You look like someone who fought a war in his sleep," she teased, sliding him a cup of coffee.
"Yeah," Dhruve said, rubbing his eyes. "And lost."
She laughed softly, the sound easing the tension in his chest.
For a while, they talked about ordinary things — traffic, movies, random memes. But even during laughter, Dhruve felt it — the quiet undercurrent between them. That strange comfort that made his guard slip without him realizing it.
At one point, she said, "You know, I don't think healing means forgetting. It's more like… learning to live with the noise."
Dhruve looked at her for a long moment."Yeah," he said quietly. "But what if the noise sounds like someone's name?"
Anya's smile faded slightly. "Then maybe you stop trying to shut it out. Let it pass through you instead."
Her words lingered long after the coffee went cold.
Later that night, Dhruve sat scrolling absentmindedly through social media, letting random posts blur together. Then something froze him mid-scroll — a familiar name in a trending blog post.
Priya Sharma – A Tale of a Love Gone Wrong.
His stomach dropped.
He opened it, half out of masochism, half disbelief. The post was from a gossip site that liked romantic scandals and moral outrage. It talked about her divorce, about "rumors of infidelity," about a husband who refused to comment.
It didn't mention his name. But it didn't need to.
He stared at the screen, heart pounding in that old, familiar rhythm — the one he thought he'd left behind.
"Damn it," he muttered, slamming the laptop shut.
For a few seconds, he just sat there in the dark, fists clenched, jaw tight. Then he got up, walked out to the balcony, and lit a cigarette. The night air bit cold against his face.
The city below buzzed — uncaring, unstoppable. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift and fade into the air.
"She's still out there," he whispered to himself. "Living. Talking. Acting like none of it ever happened."
He laughed bitterly, running a hand through his hair. "Of course she is. Why wouldn't she?"
The next day, Anya noticed it immediately."You're quieter," she said while they walked back from work."Just tired," Dhruve lied.
She didn't buy it. "You saw something, didn't you?"
He glanced at her. "You ever feel like the past just… spits in your face for fun?"
"Every other Tuesday," she said dryly. Then, softer, "What happened?"
He hesitated. "She's in the news again."
Anya exhaled. "And that messed you up."
"Yeah. Guess I'm predictable."
"No," she said gently. "You're human."
That word hit him harder than he expected. Human. He'd forgotten what that felt like — to be broken but still real, flawed but still seen.
He stopped walking, looking down at the pavement. "Anya, do you ever think some wounds shouldn't close?"
She met his eyes. "Some don't. They just change shape."
They ended up at his apartment, sitting on the couch in comfortable silence. Outside, rain tapped lightly against the windows, steady and soft.
At one point, Anya leaned her head on his shoulder. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just listened to the rain, to her breathing, to the faint pulse of something almost peaceful.
"You know," she murmured, "for someone who claims he's numb, you feel a lot."
Dhruve gave a small, weary smile. "Maybe that's the problem."
She tilted her head slightly, looking at him — eyes searching, warm. "It's not a problem. It's proof you're still alive."
There was a quiet moment, almost fragile.Then, without thinking, Dhruve reached up, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. She didn't pull away.
The space between them dissolved — not rushed, not burning — just quiet, human warmth in the middle of too many broken pieces.
That night, after she left, Dhruve stood by the window again. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets glistening under faint streetlights.
He whispered, almost to the reflection of himself,"I don't know if this is healing or just hiding."
For once, the silence didn't answer back.
But deep inside, he felt something shift — small, barely noticeable, but real.Not closure. Not forgiveness.Just breath.