Six months slipped through their fingers like dry leaves carried by a gentle wind. The texts kept arriving—small flickers of connection in a world that often felt too vast and distant.
A meme, sent just as Siddharth noticed something that reminded him of her.
A voice note, warm with the subtle crackle of his quiet breath, the kind that reaches across silence without demanding reply.
Photos of forgotten bookstores—dust motes dancing in shafts of golden light—and screenshots of poetry that seemed to hang in the air between them, fragile as glass.
And sometimes, a whisper of words:
“Thinking of you.”
No pressure, no expectation—only soft threads tying them together.
Hema answered in small pulses.
Sometimes her replies came curt and clipped, a single full stop like a door closing just before it could open.
Other times, they bore the gentle curve of half-smiles, the tentative warmth of someone afraid to hope too much.
She met him for coffee once. Twice. Their laughter was light, but it trembled on the edges, like leaves shaken by a breeze that might turn stormy.
She said yes to his invitation for the library—their shared sanctuary of quiet, dusty tomes and whispered stories.
They watched Charlie again, the dog movie, because:
“You like dogs. I like Parvathy.”
That silly, half-serious reason made them both laugh, their voices mingling in the warm air.
They talked. They laughed.
But between their words, silences grew, stretching long and hollow like shadows before dusk.
Not cold or angry silences—just emptiness settling softly like dust on forgotten shelves.
To Siddharth, it was like floating inside a sunlit room,
where the lights glowed warmly but the door never opened.
He was there, a steady presence—wanted or not.
He promised himself patience.
But patience was starting to feel like waiting for a train that might never come, standing still as the world moved on.
Was this friendship? A slow recovery?
Or simply a polite pause before goodbye?
He couldn’t stop the questions, circling in his mind like restless moths drawn to a fading flame.
One evening, after a museum visit planned long ago, they stepped out into the golden hour.
Above them, the gulmohar trees swayed gently, their red petals falling like fragile, whispered answers.
Siddharth broke the silence, voice low and uncertain,
as if speaking would risk shattering everything.
“Hema… can I ask you something real? Without you brushing it off?”
She stopped mid-step, the pause lingering between heartbeats.
Turned to face him, eyes soft but guarded.
“Of course.”
He drew in a slow breath, steadying the storm inside.
am I still someone you want?”
Her lashes trembled, her gaze flickering like a candle caught in wind.
“Siddharth…” she whispered, voice fragile like spun glass.
He pressed on, words spilling faster than he meant,
“I mean really, Hema. I’ve been here. I’ve shown up—in every way I know how.
But I don’t know where I stand. Sometimes you reply. Sometimes you disappear.
We meet, we laugh, and then I go back wondering if I imagined all of it.”
Her voice was distant, automatic, as if rehearsed.
“I’m replying, Siddharth. But… sorry if you felt that way.”
He shook his head gently, sadness pooling behind tired eyes.
““No. Don’t toss sorry around like it’s just another word.”
. I need you to hear me.
You’re replying, not talking.”
Her silence stretched like a fragile thread pulled taut, trembling with unsaid words.
He continued, steady and slow, like a river carving stone.
“I know I hurt you. I didn’t show up when I should’ve. I walked away before, and I regret that deeply.
But since then… I’ve done everything I could to show I care.
And now—what are we doing?
Am I just someone you let in just enough to not feel alone?
Or are you scared of something more?”
She looked down, eyes tracing the worn stone tiles beneath her feet.
The gulmohar petals drifted softly, crimson confessions settling silently around them.
Finally, her voice broke through—a fragile thread woven with trembling truth.
“I’ve had… relationships before. They didn’t end well.
I thought I’d healed, but I haven’t.
I can’t fully trust. I can’t attach and detach like others.
And with you—there’s a fear I can’t name.
What if it all breaks again?”
Siddharth nodded slowly, understanding echoing in his steady gaze.
“I understand fear, Hema. I really do.
But keeping someone at the gate just because you’re scared—that isn’t fair to them.”
Her eyes rose to meet his, vulnerability shimmering in their depths.
“I never meant to keep you at the gate.”
He held her gaze, firm but weary.
“But you did.”
His voice softened, no anger—only exhaustion.
“Maybe you didn’t mean to hurt me.
“That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”
I’ve been the one knocking. Waiting. Hoping.
You say you’re afraid. I get it.
But healing isn’t something I—or anyone—can do for you.
You have to choose it.”
I don’t want to be your friend.
I don’t want to be in your circle, your square, or any neat little label you make space for.
I’m either your sun—or your black hole.
I won’t settle for anything in between."
A tremor touched his voice, barely there but raw with meaning.
“If you’re still angry about that first time, I’ll say it again—I’m sorry.
Truly.
But I can’t keep breaking my own heart to prove it.
I like you, Hema. I really, really do.
But I choose me more.”
(That courage—so rare and fierce—was his alone.)
Her lips parted, words trembling like fragile birds on the edge of flight.
She wanted to say—
Wait.
I care.
Please don’t go.
But fear had clamped tight around her voice, silencing the truth beneath.
Siddharth looked at her one last time,
his eyes soft, but resolute—anchored in quiet strength.
“You can only let someone in after you break your own walls.
The axe to break the wall?
It’s in your hands, Hema. Not mine.”
A pause stretched, full of unsaid promises and fading hopes,
then—
“I’m sorry. But I can’t keep waiting outside forever.”
And he walked away.
She didn’t stop him.
Couldn’t.
Tears slid down her cheeks—neither loud nor dramatic—just soft, quiet, and real.
She sank onto the museum bench, hands loosely clasped in her lap,
the weight of herself pressing down in the gathering dusk.
For the first time in a long while, she hated herself—not because she didn’t love him—
But because she might have—
and still couldn’t say it.
The silence between two people who almost found each other—
what do you call that?
Is the red string real?
The universe? Destiny?
Maybe.
But all of it only works if you do.
If you’re willing to be helped.
If you’re brave enough to choose.
And today—she wasn’t.
0 Comments