A month passed. The silence solidified, becoming a permanent resident in Dakshin's life. He stopped trying to reach out. The library confrontation had been the final, brutal full stop on that sentence. He focused on his finals, the grueling schedule a welcome anesthetic. When they ended, the sudden absence of structure left him adrift in a sea of his own thoughts.
His mother, Clara, noticed. She had been watching him for weeks—the way he pushed food around his plate, the hollow look in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. One evening, she found him staring blankly at the television, the screen reflecting nothing in him.
She sat beside him on the sofa, the cushions dipping with a familiar comfort. "The house feels too quiet without your textbooks everywhere," she began softly, not looking at him but at the silent TV. "Finals are over. You should be out with your friends. You should be... lighter."
Dakshin didn't respond. The silence stretched, but it was a different silence from the one he shared with his father—softer, filled with unspoken worry.
"It's that girl, isn't it? Anaya," Clara said, finally turning to him. She placed a gentle hand on his arm. "My poor boy. I see the weight you're carrying."
A bitter smile touched Dakshin's lips. "The weight of doing the 'right thing,' like you and Dad always taught me."
Clara sighed, a sound full of maternal pain. "Oh, Dakshin. We taught you to be responsible, to think of your future. But this... this sadness... this wasn't the goal." She squeezed his arm. "You have to understand, she is not the only girl in this world. There are many, many better girls out there for my boy. Girls from families without... all this complication. Girls who will see the wonderful, successful man you are becoming and won't come with this burden of drama."
Her words were meant to be a balm, but they felt like sandpaper on a raw wound. She made it sound so simple, as if Anaya were a faulty product he could exchange for a better model.
"You don't get it, Mom," he said, his voice thick. "You're talking about replacing her. You can't just... replace a person. You can't replace two years. You can't replace the way she..." He trailed off, unable to articulate the way Anaya had made him feel seen, not for his potential, but for who he was in that moment.
"I'm talking about your happiness," Clara insisted, her voice firming with a mother's protective instinct. "And that happiness will not be found pining for a girl whose family is now tied to ours in this... this mess. What future is there in that? Look at you. You're brilliant, you're kind. The world is full of possibilities, full of other hearts that will be lucky to have you. You need to let this one go."
Let this one go. As if she were a book he could return to the library.
He stood up, the movement sudden. "I'm going to my room."
He left her sitting there, her well-intentioned words hanging in the air. He walked to his room and looked around at the trophies and engineering models—a life curated for success. It felt like a beautifully furnished, empty house. His mother's attempt to comfort him had only made it clearer. They all saw Anaya as a problem to be solved, a chapter to be closed. They didn't understand that she wasn't just a girl; she was the echo of a life he could have had, and her absence was a silence that screamed through every room of his future. The world might be full of other hearts, but his, it seemed, was permanently out of stock.