Ananya didn't remember how she reached home.
She remembered walking. She remembered the streetlights passing one by one. She remembered the sound of her own footsteps, uneven, like her heart. But everything else felt blurred, as if the evening had wrapped itself in fog the moment she turned away from Arav.
His last words echoed in her head.
"You should be."
Afraid.
Of what?
Of him?
Of the truth?
Or of loving someone who could destroy her without ever meaning to?
She closed the door to her room softly, leaning against it for a moment as if her legs might give up. Her bag slid down her shoulder and fell to the floor. She didn't bother picking it up.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her hands. They were still trembling slightly. Not from fear of the accident—but from the way Arav had looked at her.
Terrified.
Not for himself.
For her.
That realization settled in her chest like a slow ache.
She lay back, staring at the ceiling fan as it rotated lazily above her. The same fan that had watched her cry herself to sleep for years. The same ceiling that had heard her whisper his name when she thought no one else could hear.
She pressed her palm against her chest.
Why did you come back if staying hurts this much?
Sleep didn't come easily. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the bike rushing toward her. Felt his arms pulling her back. Heard the crack in his voice when he shouted her name.
She turned onto her side, hugging her pillow tightly.
For five years, she had imagined a hundred versions of his return.
None of them felt like this.
The next morning arrived too soon.
Sunlight crept through the curtains, pale and unforgiving. Ananya woke with a dull headache and a heaviness behind her eyes. Her phone lay on the bedside table, silent.
No messages.
She hadn't expected any—but the silence still stung.
At breakfast, she barely touched her food.
"Ananya, you're zoning out again," her mother said, watching her carefully. "Are you unwell?"
"I'm fine, Maa," she replied quickly, forcing a small smile. "Just didn't sleep properly."
Her mother studied her for a second longer, then sighed. "Don't skip meals. You're not a machine."
If only it were that simple.
She left for college with a knot in her stomach. Every familiar street corner reminded her of him. Every bike that passed made her flinch.
She kept expecting to see Arav again.
At the tea stall.
Near the banyan tree.
At the crossing where he pulled her back.
But he wasn't there.
College felt distant that day. The lectures blurred into background noise. Her notebook remained mostly blank, except for the same word scribbled unconsciously along the margin.
Why.
Riya noticed.
"You look like someone sucked the life out of you," she muttered, nudging Ananya during lunch. "What happened yesterday? You left without saying anything."
Ananya hesitated.
"I saw him."
Riya froze. "Saw… who?"
"Arav."
Riya's eyes widened. "Again? Where?"
"On the road. Near the market."
"And?" Riya leaned closer. "Did he say anything?"
Ananya stared at her plate. "Enough to confuse me."
Riya sighed. "Anu… you can't let him do this again. Show up, disappear, scare you, protect you—whatever this is. It's not fair."
"I know," Ananya whispered.
But knowing and feeling were two very different things.
That evening, Arav stood on the terrace of the small rented building he now lived in, staring at the city lights below.
His phone lay beside him.
Silent.
He had typed her name at least ten times. Deleted it every time.
What was he supposed to say?
Sorry I scared you?
Sorry I almost lost you?
Sorry I came back only to complicate your life again?
None of it felt enough.
He leaned against the railing, jaw tight.
Seeing her almost get hit had broken something inside him.
He had faced worse things. Darker things. He had stood in rooms where fear was a constant presence. He had learned how to control it, live with it, bury it.
But the thought of Ananya lying on that road—
His hands clenched.
He didn't trust himself around her anymore.
Not because he didn't love her.
Because he loved her too much.
Two days passed.
No calls.
No messages.
No accidental meetings.
Ananya told herself it was better this way.
Still, when her phone buzzed on the third evening, her heart jumped before her mind could stop it.
Unknown number.
She hesitated, then answered.
"Hello?"
There was a pause.
Then—
"Ananya… it's me."
Her breath caught.
Arav.
Her fingers tightened around the phone. "You shouldn't be calling."
"I know," he said quietly. "But I needed to hear your voice. Just once. To know you're okay."
She closed her eyes. "I am."
A beat.
"I'm glad."
Silence stretched between them—not awkward, just heavy.
Finally, she asked, "Why did you really come back, Arav?"
He didn't answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was low. "Because something followed me. And I couldn't risk it reaching you without me being here."
Her heart sank. "You're still not telling me everything."
"No," he admitted. "I'm telling you the part that matters."
"And the rest?"
"The rest would make you look over your shoulder every time you step outside," he said softly. "I don't want that life for you."
She swallowed. "You don't get to decide that alone."
"I know," he said. "But I will, if it keeps you safe."
There it was again.
That stubborn, protective instinct.
"You're exhausting," she murmured.
A faint smile crept into his voice. "You always said that."
Her chest tightened at the familiarity.
"Arav… if you care this much," she said slowly, "then stop pushing me away."
He exhaled shakily. "I'm not pushing you away. I'm standing between you and the storm."
"And what if I don't want to hide behind you?"
His voice softened. "Then I'll stand beside you."
Her heart skipped.
"Just… not yet," he added.
The hope deflated slightly.
"When?" she asked.
"I don't know," he admitted honestly.
She looked out of her window, watching the sky darken. "Then don't call me like this. Not unless you're ready to tell me the whole truth."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then, "That's fair."
"I meant it," she said. "I can't do half-presence, Arav. I already survived your absence once."
That hurt him more than he expected.
"I know," he said quietly. "And I'm sorry."
She believed him.
That scared her more than anything else.
They ended the call without saying goodbye.
Neither of them slept well that night.
Because some connections don't break cleanly.
They linger.
They ache.
And they wait.