The evening wrapped itself around Hema like a suffocating shroud as she stepped into her apartment. The air felt heavier than usual, as though even the walls had overheard the words they had exchanged.
The silence was thick—an aching kind of quiet that seemed to press down on her chest with every breath she took.
She let her bag slip to the floor, the sound too loud for a room so full of silence.. Her phone buzzed once—a sharp, electric sound that jolted her. Her heart stuttered with hope. She snatched it up.
Just a work update.
She didn’t answer.
“Have you eaten anything?” her mother called softly from the kitchen, her voice floating like a paper boat over water.
“Yes, ma. I don’t want anything,” Hema replied without turning. Her voice was flat. Not rude—just tired.
She went straight to her room.. She curled into herself like a comma at the end of a sentence that never quite finished.
Her heart was loud in the quiet.
She picked up her phone again. Her thumb hovered over Siddharth’s chat window, then veered away. She opened her messages to Akila instead.
Shall we go to our usual coffee spot tomorrow?
A few seconds passed.
“Sure, d. But you’re buying.”
Hema didn’t reply. She just set the phone on the table beside her, face down.
That night stretched endlessly. The kind of night that doesn’t ask questions, just lets you sit with every single thought you've been avoiding.
They hadn’t spoken.
They hadn’t texted.
But the silence wasn’t hollow.
It was full—stuffed with unsaid words, unspent feelings, sharp regrets dulled only by time.
She opened Instagram. Typed his name.
Nothing.
Her breath caught.
No profile. No stories. No shared memories in thumbnail grids.
Siddharth had blocked her.
Not in anger.
Not to punish her.
But because every glimpse of her online presence had been like reopening a wound that never stopped bleeding.
Every green dot next to her name, every post with a book or a dog or a coffee cup, pulled him under like a riptide.
So, he did the only thing he could.
He let go.
The room tilted slightly. She sat down on the edge of her bed, palms cold and trembling.
Tomorrow is Day One.
Day One without him.
The next morning, the world continued its usual rhythm. But Hema moved through it as if underwater—every sound muffled, every step delayed.
The office was alive with its normal chaos. Emails pinged. Phones rang. Coffee machines whirred. But inside her, nothing moved.
After work, she met Akila at their usual coffee spot—the little café tucked into a side street, with its corner table that had seen both laughter and tears over the years.
The air smelled of espresso and cinnamon. The low hum of conversation filled the space, grounding her just enough to speak.
She started slowly, like peeling open a wound. Every word hurt, but every word helped. From the small texts to the last conversation. From the jokes they shared to the silence that followed.
“I really started to like him, d…” Hema said, eyes lowered. “But suddenly, everything fell off. Is it my mistake?”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
“But I… I couldn’t say the right things.”
A single tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t brush it away.
Without a word, Akila reached out and wrapped her fingers around Hema’s — steady and warm.
“It’s okay, d. It’s not your mistake,” she said gently. “You took time. That’s not a crime. That’s not weakness. That’s human.”
“If it’s meant to be, it will be. But don’t torture yourself with ‘what ifs.’ Continue writing. Heal. Take care of yourself first.”
Something loosened in Hema’s chest.
That night, the silence returned—but it wasn’t the same. It was no longer crushing. Just… real. Honest.
The urge to break the silence between them pulsed inside her. The temptation to reach out, to type one last “are you okay?” lingered at her fingertips.
But she didn’t know what she felt. She didn’t know what to say.
So, she chose to sit with it.
With the absence.
With the truth: No one was coming back.
Day 365.
One year since it all began.
And ended.
Hema had learned to carry the ache without letting it drown her.
She no longer looked for Siddharth’s name in every notification. She no longer waited for closure.
She accepted it. Not in defeat, but with clarity.
It is what it is.
It won’t be what it could have been.
But she still wanted to grow. To understand why she kept building walls.
So she pulled out her journal—creased and coffee-stained—and began writing about her past.
Every relationship. Every pattern. Every time she ran when things got close.
One evening, while mindlessly scrolling, a reel flashed past her screen.
“Therapy is not for the broken. It’s for those who want to understand their own story.”
The words clung to her. She googled therapists in her area.
She read, compared, bookmarked.
Then she found Dr. Viji.
A renowed psycologist , more than her profile , hema felt some connetion at the first sight , her simle maybe ….somewhat familiar face ..
She booked a session.
The next week, she walked into the clinic, heart racing.lots of thoughts in her mind , is is good or bad , how am i gona open up , is the doctor gonna judge me ?
A soft voice welcomed her.at the reception
“Hi, Hema.” … welcome …receptionsist deepa,
Hema smiled …
The waiting room smelled faintly of lemongras and old books , It looked like a cozy book café—warm wood floors, soft lighting, indoor plants swaying by the windows.Hema sat on the beige couch, fingers gripping the strap of her sling bag. Her heart beat a little too loudly in her ears.
She looked around, eyes landing on a boy sitting diagonally across from her. Tall. Curly-haired. He looked tense—brows furrowed, bouncing his leg, chewing the skin near his thumb
The receptionist called her name. She rose.
First Session
The therapy room felt like a quiet nest—pale yellow walls, plants on the windowsill, and a soft couch that didn’t look like it belonged in a clinic.
“Hi, Hema,” said a gentle voice.
The woman who stood up looked nothing like what Hema expected. Not formal. Not clinical. Just… kind.
“Hello, doctor…” she managed, half-smiling.
“You can call me Viji,” the woman said, her smile gentle, reassuring. “This space is yours. No judgments. Just stories. Let's begin wherever you're ready.”
Hema managed a nod. Sat down slowly.
There was silence for a moment, but it didn’t feel awkward. Just space being offered.
“Why are you here today?” Viji finally asked,Hema’s throat felt dry.
“I… I think I broke something,” she whispered. “Something that could’ve been good. Maybe even love.”
“And why do you think it broke?”
Hema looked down at her fingers.
“Because I didn’t know how to trust it. I didn’t know how to let someone in.”
Viji nodded gently.
“And you want to learn how?”
Hema blinked.
“Yes,” she said. “Before I lose anything else.”
Okey hema , be comfortable , we ill meet next week ….viji said
Second Session
He was there again—the curly-haired boy. Same corner seat. Still bouncing his leg, still biting his thumb.
He glanced up. She did too.
No words.
Just recognition now. The kind you share with fellow passengers on a long ride.
The room felt familiar now. Less like a clinic.
Hema sat cross-legged on the couch, a soft cushion in her lap. She hadn’t spoken yet. Viji didn’t rush her.
Finally, Hema murmured, “I’ve always been told I’m strong. But lately, I feel like glass.”
“Who told you strength means never cracking?” Viji asked.
Hema gave a hollow laugh. “Everyone. Parents, teachers, even myself. Especially myself.”
Viji leaned forward slightly. “Maybe being strong isn’t about holding everything together. Maybe real strength is knowing when to let it break.”
Hema looked at her fingers. Her nails were bitten down. Her voice dropped.
“I miss him.”
“That’s okay.”
“I don’t want to,” Hema said, a little sharper now. “He blocked me. Moved on. Why am I still stuck?”
“Because grief doesn’t follow rules,” Viji said. “It lingers in the parts that felt safe with someone.”
Hema bit her lip. “I was never safe. Even with him. Not fully.”
“Maybe not with him. But perhaps the idea of him.”
A pause.
“That’s what hurts,” Hema whispered. “The idea.”
Third Session
They exchanged smiles.
His was crooked. Shy. Hers was hesitant. Fleeting.
But it stayed with her all the way into the session.
“You seem lighter today,” Viji noted, pouring her tea.
Hema nodded.
“I smiled at a stranger.”
“Felt good?”
“Strangely… yeah.”
Third Session
Rain trickled down the windows outside. The session began in silence again. But this time, Hema was first to speak.
“I wrote about all my past relationships last night.”
Viji smiled slightly. “That’s brave.”
“I found a pattern,” Hema said. ““I don’t know why, but I keep falling for the ones who stay just out of reach.”. The ones who don’t ask too much of me. Because then I don’t have to give too much.”
“And Siddharth?”
Hema’s throat tightened. “He asked everything. Not loudly. Not aggressively. Just... presence. Consistency. It terrified me.”
“Why?”
“Because it was unfamiliar. Because it was... real.”
Viji nodded. “Sometimes, the unfamiliar feels unsafe. Even when it’s healthy.”
Hema sighed. “I kept waiting for him to leave. So I left first.”
“Would you let someone stay now?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes shimmered. “But I want to know.”
Fourth Session
“Hi,” he said this time.
“Hi,” she replied.
“I’m Kannan,” he added, scratching the back of his neck.
“Hema.”
And that was it. Just names. But the space between them shifted.
Viji placed a soft clay figurine on the table between them. A tiny sculpture of a heart, slightly cracked but pieced together.
Hema smiled faintly. “That’s how I feel. Patched.”
“Do the cracks scare you?” Viji asked.
“Yes. And no. They remind me that I’m still here.”
“Tell me about the voice in your head,” Viji said. “The one that whispers fear.”
Hema blinked. “She tells me, ‘Don’t trust this. It won’t last. People don’t stay. You’re too much.’”
If she were sitting right here, what would you actually tell her?”
Hema hesitated.
“I’d say… maybe you’re wrong. Maybe someone will stay. But only if I stop pushing them away first.”
“That’s growth,” Viji said. “Even saying that—that’s part of healing.”
Fifth Session
Hema arrived early. She waited outside, notebook in hand, thumb running along the spine. Inside the session, her voice came steadier now—still soft, but not uncertain.
The session was heavier this time. They talked about patterns—how Hema had always chosen people she couldn’t fully have, how she pushed away when things felt real.
“I get scared,” she confessed. “When someone’s nice to me, I wait for them to change. When they don’t, I pull away anyway. “Because when something feels that real… I freeze. I don’t know how to hold it without breaking it.”
Viji nodded. “Fear can be loud. But truth is quiet—and steady.
Later, in the corridor, she saw Kannan again. They both walked out of the clinic.
A drizzle had begun outside.
He opened his umbrella. Hesitated.
“Coffee?” he asked.
She surprised herself by saying, “Okay.”
There was a small café right across the road—low lights, jazz music, mismatched mugs.
They sat opposite each other.
“Rough day?” he asked.
Hema stirred her coffee.
“Better than yesterday.”
He smiled.
“Same.”
No probing questions. No sudden intimacy. Just two people sitting in the warm silence between healing wounds.
“I’ve started writing again. Not just stories. I write letters I don’t send. To Siddharth. To my old self. To the girl who was afraid.”
“What do they say?”
Hema thought for a moment.
“They say… ‘You’re not broken. You’re just learning to be whole in a different way.’”
Viji looked proud, but didn’t say it aloud. Just let the space hold the truth.
“And Kannan?” she asked gently.
Hema smiled. “He’s… there. Like a quiet corner in a loud room. We haven’t spoken much. But today, we’re getting coffee.”
“And how does that feel?”
“New,” Hema said, almost shyly. “But not scary. Not like before.”
“Then take your time,” Viji said. “Healing isn’t a sprint. It’s a slow reclaiming.”
0 Comments