The door creaked the same way it used to. That faint, familiar sound hit Dhruve like a ghost whispering "welcome back."
He stepped inside slowly, eyes adjusting to the dimness. The apartment smelled faintly of lavender — the same brand of room spray she always used. The curtains were new, though; a pale blue replaced the warm beige they once chose together.
Priya stood near the window, arms crossed, not looking at him. "You came," she said softly. Her voice wasn't cold… just tired.
"Yeah," Dhruve replied, shutting the door behind him. The sound of it closing felt final, like the world outside no longer existed.
For a few seconds, neither spoke. The silence between them stretched, filled with everything they didn't say.
Dhruve's eyes wandered across the room — the couch where they used to fall asleep mid-argument, the wall that still had faint nail marks from a photo frame she threw once. He felt something twist in his chest.
She finally turned, her eyes tracing him cautiously. "You've changed," she said. "You look… harder."
"Guess people do," he muttered, half-smiling. "You look the same. Still pretending you're fine."
She laughed quietly — a bitter, self-aware sound. "I learned from you."
He walked further inside, noticing her trembling fingers. "You didn't call me here just to trade sarcasm, right?"
Priya exhaled deeply. "I wanted to end this properly."
"'Properly?' After everything?" he said, his voice tightening. "There's no proper way to bury something that's already dead."
Her eyes softened. "Dhruve… I didn't come to argue."
But he was already slipping — all the resentment, guilt, and leftover love churning together. "You think you can just tie a bow on this and walk away like it's nothing? You broke me."
"I know," she whispered. "And I've lived with that every day."
He looked away, jaw tense. "Damn it," he muttered, dragging his hand through his hair. "You don't get to sound sad about it."
Then, unexpectedly, she stepped closer. Her hand brushed his arm — barely a touch, but enough to freeze him. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice breaking. "I mean it, Dhruve. You didn't deserve how things ended."
He didn't move. Every part of him screamed to step back — but another part, the one still aching, stayed still.
When he finally looked at her, she was crying silently. And for a moment, it wasn't about betrayal or anger. It was just two people who once knew each other too well, standing in the ruins of something they both destroyed.
He reached out instinctively, his fingers brushing her cheek. She didn't flinch.
Their eyes met — a second that lasted forever. Then he pulled his hand back sharply, as if burned. "Don't," he said hoarsely. "Don't make it harder."
Priya wiped her tears, trying to smile. "You always hated seeing me cry."
"Yeah," he murmured, turning toward the door. "Still do."
He walked out without looking back. The door clicked shut behind him, but the apartment still held the echo of two people who once loved and hurt each other beyond repair.
And outside, Dhruve lit a cigarette — something he'd quit long ago. The smoke drifted upward as he whispered to himself,"Guess some ghosts never really die."