Monday | 8:52 AM | Hostel Mess, Uttar Pradesh
The spoon clinked gently against the steel plate as Riya stirred her lukewarm tea. Around her, the usual hostel chatter buzzed like background noise—girls complaining about the syllabus, giggling over Instagram reels, someone yelling for a tissue from the other end of the mess hall.
But Riya was somewhere else.
Mentally, emotionally—still caught between the lines of Devansh's poem.
"Yet, she speaks like a summer evening…"
She didn't know why that one line had struck so deep. Maybe because no one had ever described her without pointing to her scars. Her walls. Her caution.
But Devansh didn't describe her that way.
He didn't name her fears—he simply saw her beyond them.
That was new.That was terrifying.And… it was also something she found herself craving.
Her phone buzzed softly under the table.
Devansh: "How's my favorite rebel doing this morning?"
She smiled.
Riya: "Tired. Didn't sleep much."
Devansh: "Dreams? Or thoughts?"
Riya: "Both."
He didn't ask more. He never did.And that restraint felt more intimate than any questioning ever could.
11:04 AM | College Lecture Hall
The teacher was explaining Piaget's cognitive theory, but Riya's mind kept slipping back to the messages.
To the songs he sent.The way he never pressured her.The way he waited.
That patience… it made her feel safe enough to think of the unthinkable.
Could she ever try again?Could she… trust?
6:45 PM | Hostel Room
After class, she sat on her bed with her journal open. It had been months since she'd written in it. Her fingers trembled slightly, but she began scribbling:
"It's not the words he says that matter,It's the ones he doesn't.The spaces he leaves for me to fill—That's where I'm learning to exist again."
She closed the journal and stared at her phone.
She didn't send him the poem.
Not yet.
But she'd written it—for him.
Monday | 10:12 PM | Jaipur
Devansh leaned back on his couch, arms folded behind his head, phone resting on his chest. His room was dark except for the soft blue glow from the router light blinking on the shelf. He liked the dark. It made the silence richer. Deeper.
But tonight, he wasn't alone in it.
He could feel her presence through the screen. Through the thoughtful pauses in her messages. The way she'd start typing, stop, and then send something far simpler than what she likely meant.
He could sense it—she was trying.
And it meant more than she could possibly know.
Riya: "Devansh…"
Devansh: "Yes?"
Riya: "You're… easy to talk to. That's rare."
His heart slowed. Those six words—simple, light—meant more to him than a poem being published. Or a client praising his code.
Devansh: "Thank you. You're easy to care for."
Typing…
Deleting.
Typing again…
Then:
Riya: "I'm not sure how to respond to that. But I'm smiling."
He smiled too.
That was enough.
10:41 PM
Devansh: "If I ever bore you, just say the word."
Riya: "That's not possible."
Then she sent something unexpected. A voice note.
Just one second.
A breath. A laugh. A soft "Idiot…"—half under her breath, half playful.
He played it three times.
And in that single second, something shifted.
She wasn't running anymore.
Maybe she was just… walking a little slower. But she was walking toward him.