The Question He Avoided
It started with a simple absence.
She did not come that Monday.
Aarav told himself it meant nothing. People had lives outside the library. Classes. Friends. Plans.
Still, he found himself looking at the entrance every few minutes.
By the second hour, he had read the same paragraph three times.
She did not come the next day either.
This time, he felt it.
The space across from him looked wrong. Too empty. Too quiet.
He did not like how aware he was of it.
On Wednesday, she finally walked in.
He saw her before she saw him.
Relief came first. Then irritation.
She sat down like nothing had happened.
"You disappeared," he said before he could stop himself.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "I was sick."
"You could have sent a message."
She paused. "I don't have your number."
The truth landed heavier than he expected.
He did not respond.
She studied his expression carefully. "You were worried."
"I was not."
"You were."
There was no teasing in her voice this time. Just observation.
Aarav looked away. "You assume too much."
"And you feel too much," she replied gently.
Silence stretched between them.
He hated that she could see through him. Hated that she was right.
After a moment, she slid a small piece of paper across the table.
"My number," she said. "In case I disappear again."
He stared at it.
This was how it started. Numbers. Messages. Late-night conversations. Attachment.
He knew the pattern.
He also knew how it usually ended.
People leave.
Or he leaves first.
Meera began packing her books slowly, giving him time to decide.
"Only if you want to," she added.
No pressure. No expectations.
That was what made it harder.
After she walked away, the paper remained in front of him.
Aarav picked it up.
He told himself it was practical. Just in case.
That night, he typed her number into his phone.
He did not text her.
But he saved it.
And for someone who never let people stay long enough to matter, saving her number felt like crossing a line he was not ready to admit existed. đź’™