PART 10: The Things We Don’t Say First
Some evenings arrive with a quiet weight—
not heavy enough to break you,
but strong enough to make you notice your own heartbeat.
That evening, the sky wore a pale orange glow, fading slowly into grey. Aarushi reached reopening বইতে পারেন না—she reached the bus stop with an unfamiliar calm. The kind that didn’t feel like happiness. The kind that felt like waiting.
Mira was already there.
She stood near the railing, sketchbook pressed lightly against her chest, eyes fixed on something distant. Aarushi noticed the stillness immediately.
Mira wasn’t observing today.
She was hiding inside herself.
“You’re early,” Aarushi said softly as she approached.
Mira looked up, surprised, then smiled—though it arrived slower than usual.
“So are you.”
They stood side by side, the evening breeze brushing past them like an unspoken greeting.
For a while, neither spoke.
It wasn’t uncomfortable. But it wasn’t their usual quiet either. Something fragile hovered between them—like glass that hadn’t cracked yet but might if touched wrong.
“Did something happen?” Aarushi finally asked.
Mira hesitated. Aarushi noticed the way her fingers tightened around the sketchbook edge.
“My ex called today,” Mira said, voice low.
The words didn’t shock Aarushi.
But they landed like sudden rain.
“Oh,” Aarushi replied, unsure which emotion she was allowed to feel.
“It wasn’t anything dramatic,” Mira continued quickly. “Just… checking in. Asking if I was still painting. Still living in the same area. Normal things.”
“And?” Aarushi asked.
Mira exhaled slowly. “And it reminded me how easy it is for the past to walk back in like it never left.”
A bus passed, headlights flashing briefly across their faces.
Aarushi stared at the road. “Did you want it to come back?”
Mira turned sharply toward her. “No.”
The certainty in her voice was immediate. Honest.
“But it made me scared,” Mira added quietly. “Because I realized I never properly talked about it. I just… moved forward.”
Aarushi nodded slowly. She understood that kind of moving. The kind that looked strong from outside but felt like unfinished pages inside.
“You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready,” she said.
“I think I want to,” Mira replied. “I’m just not good at starting.”
They walked toward their usual bench without deciding to. Their steps naturally aligned again, like their bodies remembered what their minds still questioned.
“She was someone I built a future around,” Mira began once they sat. “Years of plans. Shared routines. Everything felt… certain.”
“What happened?” Aarushi asked gently.
Mira watched a child chase pigeons across the pavement before answering.
“I gave everything,” she said. “And somewhere in that, I stopped existing as myself. When it ended, I didn’t just lose her. I lost who I was inside that relationship.”
Aarushi’s chest tightened.
“So now,” Mira continued, “I’m terrified of losing myself again. Or worse—hurting someone because I’m too careful.”
Aarushi stared at her hands, resting quietly between them.
“I don’t want you to shrink for me,” Aarushi said softly.
Mira’s gaze lifted instantly.
“And I don’t want to disappear either,” Aarushi added. “Maybe that’s where we’re both scared.”
Mira laughed quietly, though emotion trembled underneath it. “That sounds very accurate.”
The evening grew darker. Streetlights blinked on one by one, casting long shadows behind them.
“Can I tell you something honest?” Mira asked.
Aarushi nodded.
“You feel safe,” Mira said. “Not easy. Not simple. But safe. And that scares me because safe makes me want to stay.”
The words pressed against Aarushi’s heart like warmth she didn’t know she needed.
“You make me want to be visible,” Aarushi admitted. “Which is terrifying in its own way.”
They sat closer now without noticing when the distance disappeared.
A sudden breeze flipped a few pages of Mira’s sketchbook open. Aarushi glanced down accidentally—and froze.
There were sketches of her.
Not exact portraits. Moments.
Aarushi looking at rain through bus glass.
Aarushi laughing with her head tilted back.
Aarushi sitting quietly, fingers wrapped around a coffee cup.
Mira noticed her gaze and closed the book quickly.
“I didn’t mean—” she started.
“No,” Aarushi whispered. “It’s okay.”
Her voice shook slightly. “You saw me like that?”
Mira hesitated before nodding.
“I draw things I’m afraid of losing,” she admitted.
The air between them shifted.
Aarushi’s hand moved unconsciously, resting on the bench between them. Mira’s fingers slowly brushed against hers.
Not holding.
Just touching.
Both of them froze for a heartbeat.
Neither pulled away.
The city noise softened around them, as if distance had wrapped itself around that tiny moment.
“I don’t know where this is going,” Mira said quietly.
“I don’t think we need to,” Aarushi replied.
Mira looked at her carefully, searching for hesitation, for fear, for expectations she might not be able to meet.
Instead, she found calm.
“Can we just… continue?” Mira asked.
Aarushi smiled—small but steady.
“Yes,” she said.
The bus arrived, brakes hissing, lights flickering open like an invitation back into ordinary life.
They stood together.
This time, when they stepped inside, Mira didn’t let her fingers leave Aarushi’s.
She didn’t hold tightly.
She simply stayed.
And Aarushi realized something as the bus moved forward through glowing city lights—
Some connections didn’t ask where they were going.
They only asked if you were willing to keep walking.
Together.
