Siddharth couldn’t say when it happened — when the ache stopped cutting and simply became part of him, like breath or memory.
Maybe it wasn’t a single moment. Maybe it was the slow accumulation of ordinary days.
It began with routine.
Wake up. Stretch. Brew coffee. Open the blinds. Let light in.
It wasn’t healing in a dramatic sense. It was making the bed. Folding laundry. Answering emails on time. Saying yes to small things—like team lunches, or trying a new café with Renu after work.
Work helped. It became his anchor.
He threw himself into projects, volunteered for tight deadlines, mentored new hires. He wasn’t trying to escape anymore—just trying to stay present. The satisfaction of solving bugs or cracking product flows didn’t fix the past, but it gave the day shape.
His manager noticed the shift.
“You’ve grown quiet—but sharp,” she said one afternoon in a review meeting. “Steady.”
Steady. That word stayed with him.
At home, things softened too.
He bought curtains. Cooked more often. Started running in the early mornings, around the lake near Necklace Road. The wind tasted clean. The city had stopped feeling foreign. It no longer spoke a language he couldn’t understand.
He even found a favourite chai stall—opposite his office gate, run by a wiry old man who called him babu and remembered exactly how much sugar he liked.
The city was no longer a backdrop for forgetting. It had become part of him.
And yet, on some nights, memories visited. Not with knives, but as echoes. Not her name, not her face—just a feeling. A season.
But the difference now?
He let it come. And let it pass.
One Thursday evening, while scrolling through his phone, he saw a picture from Chennai—a metro station bathed in orange light.
Something tugged at him. Not sadness. Not longing. Just… recognition.
He stared at the photo longer than he expected. Then, quietly, smiled.
“I’m okay,” he whispered to the empty room.
...He stared at the photo longer than he expected. Then, quietly, smiled.
“I’m okay,” he whispered to the empty room.
He meant it.
He closed Instagram, placed the phone on the windowsill, and watched the sky shift from blue to ember. Distant traffic hummed below. Inside his flat, the light was soft, golden. Peaceful.
And then—his phone buzzed.
He glanced, expecting a work message.
But it wasn’t.
Hema.
The name blinked on his lock screen like a memory tapping on the glass. He froze.
He hadn’t seen that name in almost a year.
The message was short.
Hi. Hope youre well. Scrolled through my phone today. Found one of your old texts. Still hit me like the first time.”. Made me smile. That’s all.
For a moment, he didn’t breathe.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, the same place where he once cried over her. But he didn’t feel broken now. Just still. Like someone standing at a station platform, knowing a train had passed, but also knowing another might come—not the same one, not with the same destination, but maybe… something worth boarding again.
He stared at the message.
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
It is. And I’m glad it made you smile. That’s all I ever wanted, you know.
He paused. Debated whether to send it. Then, with a calm breath, pressed send.
The message left. Blue tick. Silence.
But his chest didn’t tighten.
He didn’t expect anything back.
It wasn’t about getting a reply.
It was about knowing he could finally talk to her without falling apart.
That night, he slept without dreams.
The city breathed around him. A quiet, humming heart.
And for the first time in months, Siddharth felt something he hadn’t dared name:
Hope.
Not for what had been.
But for what still could be.
The message from Siddharth sat quietly on Hema’s screen.
“It is. And I’m glad it made you smile. That’s all I ever wanted, you know.”
She read it three times.whwre she got this courage ,? Is this therapy ? or the friends ? she dont now , but kannan played a major role , a one simple trustworthy person can change the way you look at trust , now she is different , she is not afraid to correct her mistakes atleast she has the courage to face them !
There was no guilt in it. No anger. Just warmth. The kind of warmth that didn’t rush in or burn—it simply... stayed.
Her fingers hovered. Not from panic this time, but something gentler. Thoughtfulness.
She replied.
“You were always good at that. Making people smile.”
Blue ticks. No immediate reply. That was okay.
This wasn’t a rush.
The days that followed were like opening a window slowly.
Messages here and there. Nothing intense. Just exchanges wrapped in memory and distance.
Siddharth: “Found a bookstore with a sleepy dog at the counter. Thought of you.”
Hema: “Sounds like my heaven.”
Siddharth: “They had an old edition of Neruda. The poems smelled like the 90s.”
Hema: Okay, I’m definitely stealing that line for something I’m writing.”
The tone wasn’t romantic. Not yet. It was something else. Something new.
Respectful.
Unhurried.
One evening, they ended up on a call.
Neither of them planned it. A message turned into voice notes. Then a ring.
The first few seconds were a quiet storm of old nerves.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi,” she replied. Then added, “It’s... nice to hear you.”
There was a pause.
“Same here,” he said. “You sound... stronger.”
“I am,” she said. “You too.”
They talked. About small things. Her new writing project. His Hyderabad chai obsession. The fact that he still didn’t cook much, despite his mother’s weekly scoldings.
When the call ended, neither of them said goodbye.
Just, “Talk soon?”
“Yeah. Soon.”
A few weeks passed like that.
And then one afternoon, Hema texted:
“Hey... I’ll be in Hyderabad for a lit event next month. Just saying.”
She didn’t ask to meet. She just placed the possibility on the table.
But Siddharth knew what it meant.
“Let me know the date. I’ll make time.”
No tension. No planning.
Just… permission.
When she stepped off the flight and into the sharp, dry air of Hyderabad, she felt something loosen inside her chest.
That evening, he met her at the gates of the venue.
He looked the same—but quieter in the eyes. Not sad. Just settled.
She walked toward him. Neither of them rushed.
And when they stood in front of each other, the silence between them wasn’t heavy.
It was full.
“Hi,” she said.
He smiled.
“You look like someone who just survived a war.”
She laughed. “I did.”
They didn’t hug. Not then.
They just walked side by side down the road as the sun set behind them—orange bleeding into mauve, the wind tugging at loose strands of her hair.
And somewhere between two quiet heartbeats, they knew:
This wasn’t about going back.
This was about beginning—again.
But differently.
Together.
That evening, they didn’t rush into plans or pose for photos.
They just walked. Along a narrow lane in Jubilee Hills, where the shadows of gulmohar trees danced on the pavement, and the wind tangled her hair gently, like it knew her.
They ended up at a tiny book café tucked behind an art store.
The windows steamed slightly from inside, the glass blurred with reflections of fairy lights and worn paperbacks. Siddharth pushed the door open, the bell overhead letting out a soft ding.
“Still like cinnamon in your chai?” he asked, a little unsure.
She nodded. “No sugar.”
He smiled. “I remember.”
They didn’t talk much over chai and apple crumble.
Just watched the café cat stretch itself across a poetry shelf.
Hema flipped through a dog-eared copy of Tagore. Siddharth skimmed a book on city ruins.
“Your city feels different,” she said finally, her voice low but content.
“You mean slower?” he asked.
“No. Not slower. Just... like it lets you rest a little,” she said, brushing a loose hair behind her ear.
The next day, they visited Necklace Road—just after lunch.
The lake rippled lazily under the winter sun. Boats bobbed nearby. A couple held hands across the street.
They walked quietly along the stone railing, a safe distance apart, their shadows occasionally overlapping.
“Do you ever miss Chennai?” she asked, eyes still on the water.
“Sometimes,” he said. “But I think I miss a version of myself that lived there. This Siddharth—he breathes easier.”
She nodded. That made sense.
And she liked this version of him too—less weight in his shoulders, more stillness in his gaze.
That night, they sat on his building’s terrace. No lights. Just the faint neon haze from distant billboards and the moon, clean and pale.
“Thank you,” she said suddenly, not looking at him.
“For?”
“For letting it be slow,” she said. “For not asking too much too soon.”
He turned slightly toward her.
“I don’t need answers,” he said. “I just… like that you’re here.”
“I can’t label this,” she whispered. “But I know I want to stay.”
“Then don’t call it anything,” he murmured. “Just feel it.”“Just don’t walk away.”
She didn’t.
At the Airport – Departure Day
The cab ride was quiet. She leaned her head slightly against the window, watching buildings flicker past—Hyderabad slowly fading behind tinted glass.
He sat beside her, thumbs tracing slow circles on his knee, like a song only he could hear.
At the airport, she checked in her bag, then turned to face him.
They stood by the glass wall, planes taxiing in the distance.
Neither said much.
He pulled something from his sling bag—a small notepad.
The kind she’d once said she loved. Inside was a folded poem scribbled in ballpoint.
“Found it last week,” he said. “Wrote it long ago. For no one in particular. But now, maybe…”
She opened it. Just three lines:
“Somewhere,
even silence remembers
the first time it was heard.”
Her fingers grazed the paper like it might dissolve.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He didn’t hug her. Just reached for her hand and gave it the gentlest squeeze.
“Take care, Hema.”
She nodded. Then leaned in and rested her forehead briefly against his shoulder.
Just for a second.
And she walked away, the sliding glass swallowing her in one breath.
From behind the glass, he watched the plane lift, its lights blinking against the darkening sky.
His phone buzzed.
Hema: “Take care, too. And… thanks for the city.”
He smiled.
Not because she was coming back.
But because she had truly been there.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
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