The night didn't end with his "you're special."If anything, that word haunted me, special.What even is "special"? Something in between "I like you" and "I don't want you"?A word people use when they want to keep you close, but not too close?
I couldn't sleep.So I texted again.
"Then why do you lean this close to me every time? Why do you always flirt? Why create such chemistry when nothing exists?"
The message hung there, glowing blue in the dark.
He took a minute to reply. "What chemistry, Kriti? You're overthinking again."
Overthinking. My least favorite word.
I remembered that one afternoon, the pink paint day.The memory flashed, cruelly sweet.
We were working on that school project. The base coat was a bright pink, my choice.He walked in late, clueless, and placed his hand right on the wet paint.The look on his face — pure chaos and charm — made me laugh until I couldn't breathe.
"What have you guys done to me?" he'd said, half-smiling, half-whining.Then, casually, too casually, "Kriti, take out my hanky from my pocket, na."
For a full second, I thought I misheard."W–what?""My hanky, yaar! I can't use this hand."
My fingers went cold, my heart sprinted.Still, I did it.Slid my hand into his pocket, feeling the warmth of his thigh, the rhythm of his breath, the static between us that no paint could hide.Those milliseconds burned in my skin.
And now, he was saying, what chemistry?
"You don't act like this with Di or Shree," I typed furiously."You don't tease them, don't laugh like that, don't look at them the way you look at me!"
The dots blinked.
"Because they both don't deserve this," he finally replied. "And thank you for telling me, I'll try to change my behaviour."
That line.That corporate apology of a line.I read it again and again, trying to find emotion where there was none."I'll try to change." Like he'd just realized his 'behavioural metrics' weren't aligning with my emotional KPIs.
"So you'll change?" I shot back. "Just like that? Like all of this was some kind of mistake?"
He didn't respond.
My eyes stung, the kind that doesn't come from sadness but from realization,that I'd been holding on to moments that meant nothing to him.
The paint, the laughter, the shoulder bumps, the secret jokes.All the little things that built my world, were just random days to him.
My hands shook as I typed,"You said I'm special. But now you're saying you'll change. What am I supposed to believe?"
He sent one last message.
"Believe that I never meant to hurt you."
And that was it.The last text of the night.The kind that doesn't end a chat, but ends an era.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, replaying everything,his laughter echoing between the spaces of my silence,his "just a friend" ringing louder than my heartbeat.
Somewhere between the paint and the pocket,I had painted us a story.He just never saw the color.