Avni did not reply to the last message.
She told herself it was because replying would give it legitimacy. That silence was a boundary. That some conversations did not deserve completion.
The truth was less disciplined.
Replying meant accepting that the message belonged to her life. Ignoring it allowed her to pretend it was a glitch, a mistake, someone else's unfinished thread that had somehow crossed into her day by accident.
She slept lightly that night, drifting in and out of awareness without dreams. Every sound in the house felt louder than usual. The ceiling fan creaked once, and she opened her eyes immediately. A vehicle slowed outside, then moved on. At some point she woke with the certainty that she had been listening for something, though she could not name what it was.
Morning arrived without ceremony.
Avni followed her routine precisely, as if order could anchor her. She showered, dressed, and tied her hair back with extra care than usual. In the mirror, she looked composed, awake, functional. The kind of woman who did not have unresolved conversations waiting on her phone. The kind of woman people trusted without asking why.
At breakfast, her mother watched her more closely than usual.
"You did not sleep well," her mother said.
"I did," Avni replied automatically.
Her mother did not argue. She only nodded and placed another spoon of sabzi onto Avni's plate.
"You have been distant lately," her mother added, carefully neutral, the way one speaks when they are collecting information without alarming themselves.
Avni focused on her food. "Work."
Her mother accepted the explanation the way one accepts weather. Not convinced, but unwilling to challenge it without evidence. Concern, in their house, was often postponed until it could no longer be denied.
Avni left the house earlier than usual. The lift was empty, its mirrored walls reflecting her back at her from too many angles. She avoided her own eyes. Reflections had a way of asking questions she was not prepared to answer.
Outside, Mumbai moved with its usual impatience. Traffic flowed. Vendors shouted. Life continued loudly and unapologetically. Avni blended into it easily. She had always been good at becoming part of the background when necessary.
On the bus, she stood near the door, phone clutched loosely in her hand. She did not check it. She did not need to. The absence of vibration felt deliberate, like a held breath.
At work, she sat at her desk and opened her laptop. Emails loaded. Tasks waited. Familiar systems welcomed her back without question. Work was comforting that way. It asked for attention, not memory.
She answered messages. Reviewed copy. Attended meetings where people spoke confidently about outcomes they could not guarantee. She nodded at the right moments. She took notes she would remember how to use later.
Around noon, her phone buzzed.
She did not jump this time.
Same number.
She stared at the screen for several seconds before unlocking it, as if giving herself time to decide who she wanted to be when she read it.
You did not deny it.
Her jaw tightened.
Avni:Deny what?
The reply did not come immediately.
Minutes passed.
Her attention drifted back to her screen, though she absorbed nothing. Words blurred together. Sentences lost their shape. The waiting itself became the distraction.
Then the message appeared.
That nothing happened.
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard.
Avni:I do not know what you think you know.
A pause followed.
Then:
That is not what you said back then.
Her chest tightened in a way that felt older than the moment.
Back then.
The phrase carried weight. It implied a shared past she had misplaced. Not forgotten accidentally, but set aside deliberately, like an object that could not be thrown away yet could not be kept within reach either.
Avni stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. A colleague glanced up, startled.
"Sorry," Avni said. "Call."
She stepped into the corridor and leaned against the wall, letting the cool surface ground her. Her breathing was steady, but her thoughts were not.
Avni:You are confusing me with someone else.
The typing indicator appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.
You blocked me last time too.
Her throat went dry.
This was not coincidence. This was familiarity wearing patience. This was someone waiting for her to stop pretending.
Avni closed her eyes briefly.
Avni:Stop messaging me.
A pause.
You said that too.
Her breathing grew shallow.
Avni:This is harassment.
The reply came slower now, measured.
Then you should remember why I did not stop.
The sentence lingered on the screen, unfinished in a way that felt intentional. Like it expected her to supply the ending herself.
Avni did not respond.
She blocked the number again, this time across every setting she could find. Relief followed, thin and temporary, like closing a door without checking whether the lock held.
Blocking was not resolution. It was postponement.
The rest of the day passed in fragments. She completed tasks without remembering how. She nodded in meetings without absorbing conclusions. Her body functioned while her mind hovered just out of reach, watching herself perform competence.
On her way home, she avoided the bus and walked instead. The movement felt necessary. Each step grounded her, reminded her that she occupied physical space, that she had weight and direction.
At home, the house greeted her with familiar sounds. Her father clearing his throat. A television playing softly. Her mother humming absentmindedly. Ordinary life continued around her without interruption.
After dinner, Avni retreated to her room earlier than usual. She locked the door without thinking.
She stood in the middle of the room, uncertain what she was looking for.
Her eyes landed on the bottom drawer of her desk.
The notebook.
She sat on the bed and turned the pages slowly, this time with intention. The paper felt thinner than she remembered.
Her handwriting filled the pages. Consistent. Controlled. Careful.
Notes about work. Observations about people. Lists of things to remember and things to avoid. Strategies disguised as thoughts.
Then the sentences she could not explain.
If I disappear again, it will feel justified.
Her chest tightened.
She flipped the page.
Do not confuse calm with certainty.
Another.
He is not dangerous. Avoidance is.
Avni closed the notebook, heart pounding.
The pronoun stood out sharply.
He.
No name. No explanation. Only certainty.
Her phone vibrated.
A new number.
She stared at the screen longer this time before answering.
Blocking me does not change what you already know.
Avni:What do you want?
A pause.
To understand why you decided forgetting was safer than honesty.
Her fingers trembled.
Avni:You are assuming a lot.
You always hated that about me.
That sentence landed too precisely. Too personally.
Avni:Who are you?
The pause stretched longer this time. Not hesitation. Consideration.
Someone you trusted when you were not trying to be untouchable.
Avni stared at the dark screen. Her reflection looked unfamiliar, like a version of herself she had misplaced.
Avni:If I trusted you, I would remember you.
Another pause.
You remember pieces. You just do not like how they fit together.
Her stomach churned.
Avni:Stop contacting me.
I will. Not yet.
Her pulse quickened.
Avni:That is not your decision.
You always said that. Right before you disappeared.
Avni closed her eyes.
Disappeared.
The word echoed through her, not as accusation, but as fact.
She turned her phone off completely.
Silence filled the room, thick and unsettling.
She lay back on the bed, notebook pressed against her chest, staring at the ceiling. The fan rotated steadily above her, clicking faintly.
Some noises became part of the background if you lived with them long enough.
Avni understood something then with a clarity that felt both frightening and inevitable.
This was not someone trying to enter her life.
This was someone already inside it, waiting for her to stop pretending she had not left a door open.
For years, she had believed forgetting was survival. That erasure was control.
Now she saw the flaw in that belief.
Forgetting had not removed the past.It had only removed her ability to choose how it returned.
Her phone buzzed once more before powering down.
One final message slipped through.
I will give you time.You always needed it.
Avni lay still, breathing carefully.
Time had always been her refuge. Her delay. Her justification.
This time, she sensed, it would be something else entirely.
This time, time was not on her side.