Sunday | 9:03 AM | Jaipur
There's something oddly intimate about hearing someone's voice for the first time.
Especially when that voice, soft and slightly hesitant, keeps replaying in your head the next morning—like the fading echo of a song you didn't know you loved.
Devansh sat on his couch, sipping his coffee with the news playing faintly in the background. But his focus wasn't on the TV. It was on the chat screen still open on his phone.
Last night's conversation had shifted something inside him.
It wasn't just the voice that stayed with him—it was the silences. The kind that didn't demand to be filled. The kind that felt… safe.
He picked up the phone and typed:
Devansh: "Still alive after last night's call, or did my voice put you in a coma? 😄"
She replied just minutes later.
Riya: "Still recovering from the shock of hearing the famous poet live."
Devansh: "Careful now, your sarcasm is showing."
Riya: "You love it."
Devansh: "No denial."
Their rhythm hadn't changed. But the way it felt—had. It was more playful. More relaxed. More… them.
12:45 PM
Work was light today—it was Sunday, after all. But Devansh had never really understood the idea of "off days." He liked being productive. Idle time made him restless.
Still, today, he allowed himself something different.
He opened his journal and began writing—not for himself, not for Instagram, not for a reading event.
For her.
"She walks between shadows and daylight,Carrying pieces of storms in her sighs,Yet, she speaks like a summer evening—Quiet, soft… but impossible to forget."
He took a photo of the page and sent it to her with no caption.
A minute passed. Then five.
Then—
Riya: "You wrote that today?"
Devansh: "Yes."
Riya: "Is it… about me?"
He paused. Then typed.
Devansh: "Only if you see yourself in it."
She didn't reply immediately.
He didn't need her to.
5:16 PM
He went out for groceries later, picked up his usual items—milk, eggs, bread, a packet of instant noodles. He saw a little girl with her dad at the billing counter, crying because she couldn't get the chocolate she wanted.
He chuckled quietly to himself.
Riya had mentioned last night how her younger sister once threw a tantrum for a lollipop.
He typed:
Devansh: "Just saw a girl losing her mind over a bar of chocolate. Made me think of you and your sister 😄"
Riya: "Aww, now you're remembering things I said? Impressive."
Devansh: "I remember what matters."
That evening, he didn't open his laptop. He didn't even read. He just waited for her messages. Not with anxiety, not with obsession—just a quiet anticipation that made the night feel less lonely.
Sunday | 10:12 PM | Hostel Room
Riya was lying on her bed in her favorite oversized t-shirt, hair tied up in a messy bun, textbooks untouched. Her roommate was out for the weekend, so the room was blissfully quiet.
But her mind wasn't.
She had read that poem a dozen times since Devansh sent it. Each time, her heart thudded just a little louder.
"She speaks like a summer evening…"
She knew what that meant. And more importantly, she knew what he wasn't saying aloud.
Devansh was careful with his words—but not distant. He offered space, not pressure. Presence, not control.
And that—after everything she had been through—meant everything.
She sat with her back against the headboard and typed slowly.
Riya: "Can I tell you something? And can you not ask questions after?"
Devansh: "Always."
Her fingers hesitated. Then:
Riya: "I used to think boys only talk nice when they want something.And when they get it… they change.That happened once. And I haven't been able to trust since."
She held her breath after sending it.
He replied after a minute.
Devansh: "Thank you for telling me. That must've taken courage."
Then:
Devansh: "I don't want anything from you. Just the chance to know you, the real you. That's enough for me."
Her chest tightened.
There were no dramatic promises. No declarations of love.
Just sincerity.
That was rarer than anything else.
11:37 PM
Devansh: "Still awake?"
Riya: "Yes. Just listening to music."
Devansh: "Can I send you a song?"
Riya: "Sure."
A link popped up. A soft Hindi indie track.
She plugged in her earphones. The music began—slow, melancholic, full of yearning.
She closed her eyes.
It felt like a conversation without words.
She didn't reply.
But she knew Devansh would understand.