Siddharth
The event had ended.
Chairs scraped back. Lights dimmed to tired orange. Volunteers packed books into rustling tote bags, laughter dissolving into polite goodbyes. Yet Siddharth lingered near the edge of the stage, a half-empty tumbler of lukewarm tea in his hand.
His eyes didn’t move from the door she had exited through.
He hadn’t even known her name—until it echoed from the mic, clear and certain.
"Hema."
The syllables stayed in his mouth long after she left. Like a lyric that didn’t fade.
They had spoken briefly backstage. Her voice was calm. Measured. Too calm.
“I need to think about it,” she’d said.
No anger. No warmth. Just that soft stillness—like a lake before it rains.
And when he had asked, carefully, awkwardly, “Can I have your number?” she’d replied without pause:
"Instagram ID."
Just that. Not cold. But not inviting either.
But it meant something.
By the time he climbed into the auto and reached home, it was nearly 11:00 PM.
The street lamps outside flickered, and the hall lights inside were dimmed. His parents were already asleep. The stillness of the house wrapped around him like silence with intent.
He dropped his bag onto the chair, toes nudging off his shoes. Opened Instagram.
there it was.
Her name.
Already sitting there in the search bar
She hadn’t vanished.
He hovered for a second, then tapped Follow.
The little blue circle spun.
He lay on his bed, the fan above creaking slowly, as if groaning with secrets.
He closed his eyes and replayed the moment—her eyes lit by stage lights, the flicker of surprise in her face when she saw him, the pause before she turned away.
And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like a ghost in his own memory.
Hema
The auto ride home was quiet.
Outside, Chennai pulsed with its usual after-hours life—neon signs blinking half-heartedly, scooters weaving between autos, the wet sheen of headlights skimming rain-slick roads. But inside the vehicle, Hema sat still, hands folded in her lap, like someone trying not to break what already felt cracked.
She hadn’t expected to see him again.
Especially not tonight.
Not when she was being celebrated.
Not when she had finally begun learning how to forget.
And yet—there he was.
His apology hadn’t been dramatic. Just… sincere. Soft, like an old memory that had learned how to whisper.
When he asked for her number, she hadn’t hesitated.
"Instagram ID."
A middle path. Not an open door, not a slammed one. Just… a small window.
The front door creaked open.
Inside, the familiar scent of incense, warm sambar, and just-washed clothes folded on the dining chair wrapped around her like a memory quilt.
Her mother looked up from the hallway, hands busy folding towels. “How was the function?”
Hema slipped out of her sandals. “Yeah... all good, Ma.”
. “Did you meet any writers?” her father asked, eyebrows lifted in mock seriousness.
She smiled faintly. “There were many. But I didn’t talk to them. They left through the VIP exit.”
From the bedroom, her brother peeked out with a toothbrush in his mouth. “You win anything?”
She shrugged. “Aspiring Writer Award.”
His eyes widened. “Wow. Amma, make more gulab jamun!” he announced dramatically, before vanishing.
Hema didn’t linger. She walked straight to her room.
The applause, the soft glow of validation, and Siddharth’s unexpected presence clung to her skin like humidity.
She opened Instagram.
A notification blinked on her screen.
Follow request: Siddharth Subramanian
She stared at it for a moment that lasted longer than she’d admit.
Then—clicked Accept.
And followed back.
She placed her phone by the pillow and let herself fall back against the bed. No thoughts. No overthinking.
And for the first time in weeks, she drifted into sleep without the heaviness of replaying old scenes.
Because something had begun.
Whether she was ready or not.
Siddharth
His phone lit up.
Hema has followed you back.
He stared at it for a moment. A breath held, then exhaled.
He didn’t message.
Just placed the phone face down.
And slept—without regret chewing through his chest.
Later That Morning – Office
The clock ticked past ten.
Hema had just opened her inbox when Akila landed beside her like a monsoon breeze.
“Tell me everything, Miss Aspiring Writer!” she grinned, plopping her bag down with flair.
Hema tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and smiled.
“It was… nice. Big crowd. Warm lights. Good energy. And then—he was there.”
Akila froze mid-sip of her smoothie.
“He? Who?”
“That metro guy,” Hema said, almost too softly.
Akila blinked. “No. Way.”
Hema gave a crooked smile. “He’s following me now.”
“On Instagram?” Akila whispered, scandalized.
“Nooo,” Hema laughed. “Long story.”
“You’re not dropping that and going back to emails,” Akila said, standing up. “6 p.m. sharp. Café. Same corner table. If you ghost me, I will text your Amma.”
6:00 PM – The Café
The café down their lane glowed like a faded postcard—amber bulbs, scratched wood tables, cinnamon in the air. Their usual corner booth sat empty, like it had been waiting just for them.
Akila didn’t even wait for the chai.
“So? Did you talk to him?”
Hema nodded, stirring her drink absently.
“Briefly. He apologized. Said he didn’t know how to find me. Asked for... a second chance.”
Akila leaned back, eyes narrowing like she was reading a plot twist.
“And you?”
“I don’t know,” Hema admitted. “I’m still… hurt. But when he texted me this morning—just a simple good morning—it felt… honest.”
Akila sipped her tea slowly.
“Then don’t rush it,” she said. “Guard your heart, but don’t bury it. Take your time—but don’t freeze it.”
The Days That Followed – Text Threads
9:42 PM – Hema
Good night.
Don’t dream in old Tamil again.
9:44 PM – Siddharth
No promises. If Avvaiyar shows up again, I’ll ask her to write you a verse.
Sunday Afternoon
2:21 PM – Siddharth
Found this dusty book in Anna Library: “Rain Songs of Early Sangam Women Poets.” You’d love it.
2:27 PM – Hema
That sounds beautiful. Send me a line?
2:30 PM – Siddharth
“She stepped barefoot across thunder,
not fearing the flood—
only the silence between two raindrops.”
2:32 PM – Hema
…that’s ridiculously good. Now I feel underdressed for this conversation.
Friday Night – Late
11:34 PM – Siddharth
Still awake?
11:35 PM – Hema
Yeah. Just closed my laptop. You?
11:36 PM – Siddharth
Reading your old posts. One line stuck with me:
“Sometimes, silence is louder when you're standing next to someone who used to laugh.”
11:39 PM – Hema
I barely remember writing that. But I know exactly which day I did.
11:41 PM – Siddharth
It stayed with me.
Saturday – Movie Plans
5:47 PM – Siddharth
So... I’ve got a serious question.
Hema
Oh? Academic or existential?
Siddharth
Both. What are your thoughts on popcorn with too much caramel?
Hema
A crime. Should be banned. Why?
Siddharth
Because I’m planning to smuggle snacks into a movie. And I need moral support.
Hema
Wait. Did you just ask me out using caramel popcorn?
Siddharth
I prefer to think of it as an ethically grey invitation to culture.
Hema
Fair. I choose 96. And I want spicy murukku, not popcorn.
Siddharth
Done. But no crying on my sleeve, okay?
Hema
No promises. I’ll bring tissues. One for each of us.
Siddharth
And one more thing.
Hema
Coke???? Too bad, man!
Siddharth
No more seeing green ghosts in metro. Shall I pick you up in my 120cr AC rocket?
Hema
Let’s hope the driver shows up.
The Next Day – Metro Ride
They both showed up.
At the same metro platform where it all began.
Siddharth spotted her first—green dupatta, earphones dangling, eyes searching the horizon like the city might speak back.
They didn’t say much. Just exchanged smiles. Walked together.
This time, they stood near the third compartment.
That compartment. The one with all the ghosts.
They didn’t talk about it.
They let the silence speak.
Twenty minutes passed. Stops came and went. Their feet barely shifted.
At their stop, they walked ten minutes under a half-clouded sky. Their footsteps fell in rhythm, but their hearts—still careful.
The movie went fine. The tissues came out.
Later, over bhel puri outside the theatre, Siddharth glanced sideways.
“ it feels too good. Too… right.”
And maybe that’s what scares me.siddharth said
She didn’t meet his eyes.
Didn’t say anything.
But she didn’t walk away either.
A Week Later – Library Plan
Siddharth
Hey. Wanna dip your head into paper?
Hema
Library?
Siddharth
Too sharp. Tomorrow, 1:00 PM.
Hema
👍
The Next Day – Egmore Library
The old public library felt more like a church than a building—high ceilings, dust motes like falling prayers, and fans that whispered in old languages.
Siddharth had been there since 12:45.
He always arrived early for things that mattered.
At 1:07, she walked in.
Not flustered. Not too careful either.
Her canvas bag hung loose on her shoulder. A notebook peeking out like a secret wanting to be read.
“You came,” Siddharth said, his voice lighter than he meant.
“I said I would,” she replied, They didn’t talk for a while.
She pulled out her notebook.
He pulled out palm-leaf manuscripts.
Sunlight slid across the wooden table in thick golden beams, making their pages glow like relics.
“I remember this handwriting,” he said finally.
“You always stalk this hard?” she asked, smirking.
“I observe. Green chudi. Jasmine braid. Coffee, no sugar.”
She blinked.
“You noticed that? Back then?”
“I don’t remember minutes. I remember moments.”
She didn’t reply.
But her pen stopped moving.
And her eyes stayed on him a little longer than necessary.
She didn’t speak. But something softened.
Later, as they stepped out of the library, the light had softened into that golden-yellow hue only Chennai knew how to pull off. The air was thick with the scent of pavement and hibiscus. Cars passed, rickshaws honked in the distance, but their silence walked beside them.
“Do you always talk in metaphors?” she asked.
“Only when I’m nervous.”
“Then you must’ve been nervous on the metro too.”
“Terrified.”he admitted.
They walked a few more steps.
Then, quietly—
“But “I don’t want to be another goodbye in your life. I want to be the reason you stop expecting one.” siddharth said
She paused mid-step. Looked at him. Tired. Warm. Still a little guarded.
“I didn’t walk away today,” she said. “That’s a start.”
That night, in front of her mirror, Hema stared at her reflection. No answers. No conclusions. Just an echo of something Akila had said days ago:
"You don’t owe anyone a fairytale. But if he’s walking beside you—not pushing, not pulling—maybe it’s worth the walk."
She didn’t smile. She didn’t cry. She just stood still, fingertips brushing the edge of her table, heart oddly steady.
Elsewhere, Siddharth stared at his phone. A message blinked to life.
Hema: It was a good day. Thank you.
He smiled. A quiet, inward smile.
Silence, he could live with—as long as this kept happening. Now and then.
But not everything was easy.
Sometimes she didn’t reply. Let his texts sit. Said it was just curiosity. Nothing real.
She didn’t initiate conversations. Didn’t plan outings. Didn’t ask about his day, his friends, or his family.
And Siddharth—he noticed. He always noticed.
But he stayed calm. Told himself: Let her take time.
The silence, though—it didn’t just create space. It created shadows. It made him wonder.
Her walls are up. Am I just waiting at the gate?
Does this mean something to her—or am I just someone she texts when she’s lonely?
Was it fair to keep someone outside, hoping, when the door never opened?
What Siddharth didn’t know was—
She fixed her hair before reading his messages. She smiled at his texts, sometimes holding back laughter. She paused before posting stories, wondering if he’d see them. She waited for his replies like punctuation in her day.she text first so many times , she types but deleted later , she stalked his instagram , following list , got jealous of few girls who calls him handsome in teh comments , she just looked his photo and smiled for hours
But she never said any of this.
And he didn’t ask.
They were standing at opposite ends of a story. Both reading it at different paces.
Not a fairytale. Not yet.
But maybe...
Just maybe...
Still unfolding.
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