Later that day, I passed by that corner shop again—the one where we used to buy ice cream even during rainy days, the one where you yelled at me once for choosing pineapple flavor.
I smiled.
Not at the shop.
Not at the memory.
At the strange feeling that maybe, just maybe, we weren't entirely over.
That evening, the unexpected happened.
You called.
Not a text. Not a voice note. A real call.
I froze for a moment, staring at the screen. Then I answered.
"Hey," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
Your voice came through, quiet but clear. "Can we talk? Properly this time?"
I walked to the balcony and leaned on the rail. The city lights were blurry in my eyes.
"Yeah," I said. "We can."
There was a pause. A long one.
"Do you think... we were wrong to drift away?" you asked.
I took a breath, my heart pounding.
"No," I said softly. "I think we needed to. To grow. To breathe. But that doesn't mean we have to stay distant forever."
Another pause.
"I missed you," you said finally.
I smiled, even though you couldn't see it.
"I missed you too."
That night, we didn't talk about getting back together. We didn't make promises. We didn't plan the future.
But we talked. Openly. Honestly.
About fears.
About stupid jokes.
About how you still hate pineapple ice cream.
And somehow, in that quiet space between words, I felt the warmth of something returning.
Not love, maybe.
Not yet.
But something real.
Last week of September.
The air was cold again, but different. Not like the January chill that bit through clothes—this cold came from inside. From the stillness that followed after too many spoken words, or too many feelings left unsaid.
That morning, she didn't smile when she looked in the mirror. She just looked. Observing herself like she was someone else's story.
The school bus moved through the usual route. People talked. Laughed. Lived. But for her, everything had gone silent.
Even her notebook didn't help now. Pages remained blank, the pen in her hand paused in hesitation.
No words came. Not because she had nothing to say—but because everything she wanted to say would hurt.
For weeks now, she had kept all the feelings pressed down under forced smiles, eye contact with the window, pretending to take interest in the sky.
But inside her?
A war.
And it didn't have loud explosions. It had quiet battles—every moment choosing not to break down. Choosing not to message. Choosing not to ask: "Why are you so distant now?" Choosing not to fall.
But when someone you care about pulls away, they don't take a part of you.
They take you.
In Class.
The lectures felt longer than usual. Not because of the topic. But because every sound felt like a faraway echo.
She tried to write notes. But her hand froze halfway. Her mind was wandering again—to memories, to moments, to messages once full of laughter that now felt cold.
When she glanced outside the window, it wasn't the view she saw.
It was him.
His smile.
His voice when he used to say, "You'll be fine. You're stronger than you think."
But now?
He was distant. Quiet. Like she never existed in his world.
During Break
Someone asked her if she was okay. She smiled. "Yeah, I'm just tired."
But the truth? She hadn't slept right in weeks.
Every night was a spiral of overthinking, re-reading old conversations, wondering what she did wrong.
"Maybe I cared too much."
"Maybe I expected too much."
"Maybe I wasn't enough."
These thoughts came like waves. And she was drowning, but no one saw.
The last day in September .
Early Morning ,She finally cried.
Not just tears. But the kind of silent crying where the body shakes, the pillow absorbs everything, and no sound comes out.
Not even her own voice could comfort her now.
But strangely, after that breakdown… came quiet.
Not the scary kind.
But the kind that says:
"You survived this night too."
Later that new Month
She went back to the places where they used to laugh.
But this time, she didn't cry.
She stood.
She observed.
And she whispered to herself:
"I'll not forget. But I will not break again."
A Message Not Sent
She opened the chat.
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Paused.
And then wrote:
— "I hope you're okay. I hope you find whatever peace you're searching for. Even if it's not with me… I'll still wish you well."
She didn't send it.
Some words are meant for healing, not for hearing.
At Night
Under the stars, she looked up.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn't think of him.
She thought of herself.
What she had been through.
What she was becoming.
Not broken. Not lost. But becoming whole again. Slowly. Quietly. Strongly.