3 | the connection

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tumhare bas mein agar ho to bhool jao humein
tumhe bhulane mein shayad mujhe zamaana lage

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The line hadn't gone quiet—but it wasn't loud either. Just open. Like a door left ajar after someone had walked through, not sure if they meant to return.

She heard him breathing. Steady. Unhurried. As though the call had no edges, no urgency, just the soft gravity of being present.

She should've been the one to end it. The logical choice—the clean exit—would be to thank him, say goodnight, and let this taper off into nothing. Neat. Sensible. Like it had all been some strange blip. A moment stirred by beer and old numbers still saved in phones.

Her fleece felt warmer now—not from the air, but from the quiet tug she pretended not to notice. The pull that whispered: stay. Just a little longer.

Three years of silence should've hardened her. Should've taught her not to reach for things that had once slipped straight through her fingers. But he was here. Not gone. Not unreachable. Just... there. Still on the line.

And she? She was no longer untouched. Not anymore.

"It's late," she murmured, more to the hush between them than to him.

"Yeah," he said. "I should probably let you go."

But he didn't move. The line held steady.

And she didn't agree. Her silence was not consent—just a breath held between staying and slipping away.

Outside, the world kept moving. A motorbike revved in the distance. A door creaked shut somewhere. But this moment—this thread between them—held still.

Maybe the sane part of her wanted to rewind. To erase the call, wash her face, pull on some socks, and carry on like none of this had happened. Just a strange detour in an otherwise quiet night.

She cleared her throat, the sound barely more than a ripple. "Shouldn't you be heading to bed? Or—" she hesitated, "I don't know what time it is there—so... back to life?"

He answered a beat too fast. "Nah, I'm good. You're not keeping me from anything."

"So this is your thing now?" she asked, her tone breezy but barbed. "Late-night dare calls to girls you ghosted years ago?"

He laughed—short, rueful. "Not a thing. More like... a one-time lapse in judgment."

"A lapse in judgment?" she repeated, feigning mild offense. "Wow. That's what this is?"

His voice leapt in, too fast, too flustered. "No—no, I didn't mean it like that."

She let the silence linger a heartbeat longer than necessary, then softened her voice. "So... not a mistake?"

"I mean, not like a regret," he stammered. "Just... unexpected. I didn't think you'd pick up. And then when you did—I panicked. Said the wrong thing. I didn't even know what the right thing would've been."

She smiled quietly to herself. She wasn't mad. Not really. But he was always easy to throw off balance, especially when he wanted to sound composed.

"You too have a habit of blurting strange things when you're nervous," she said, teasing but gentle.

"I get performance anxiety on calls," he muttered. "I'm better with texting. At least then I have time to reread before I ruin everything."

She let the silence hang for a second longer than usual. Just long enough to draw his attention to the pause. 

Then: "That I would know."

She said it calmly, but the weight wasn't disguised. It landed between them with soft precision—taunting, yes, but also honest in its quiet cut.

He didn't interrupt. Maybe because he knew. Maybe because there was nothing he could say in that moment that wouldn't sound like an excuse.

She didn't press further. And just like that, the emotional current shifted—subtle, but definite. Less about what they were saying. More about what they weren't.

He took a slow breath before replying—measured, but not cold.

"I mean... it kind of takes two to go quiet in a conversation." His voice was soft, not accusatory. Just lightly shaded with truth, like he was setting down a fact without asking her to pick it up.

She felt something stir—a flicker of resistance, maybe. But also recognition. He wasn't wrong. She hadn't reached out either. Had crafted her own reasons for stepping back, for letting it fade. Maybe she'd wanted him to be the one to circle back first. Maybe she'd convinced herself silence was safer than misread intention.

"You didn't exactly leave the door open," she murmured.

Her voice wasn't raised, but there was an edge beneath it—a quiet bitterness that had taken time to sharpen. It wasn't just about the silence, not really. It was about the way he'd stepped back right when she'd offered him something honest. Something real. Not romance, maybe, but friendship. Presence.

And he'd disappeared.

Her words lingered in the space between them, and though neither acknowledged it out loud, something had shifted. Just slightly.

He didn't respond with defense or explanation. He didn't explain the years or the silence. Instead, after a long breath, he offered a half-joking, half-true reply.

"I guess I never mastered follow-through," he said. "Except for half-read books and unfinished Spotify playlists."

She let herself smile at that—barely. The tension didn't dissolve, but it gave way to something quieter, something that could be mistaken for ease.

"So," she said, nudging the air gently, "still giving five stars to albums you never finish?"

He chuckled. "Look, if a song makes me feel something in the first thirty seconds, it earns all the stars."

"That's bold," she replied. "And incredibly flawed logic."

"It's art. It's supposed to be flawed."

She laughed—not loudly, but enough to let the softness back in. Maybe they weren't ready to touch the part of the story that still ached. Maybe neither of them had the words for it yet.

Instead, they reached for smaller pieces—shared quirks, benign memories, the kind of talk that sat comfortably on the surface while the deeper things waited underneath.

"And you still hoard book recommendations and never read them?" he asked, the question landing like a familiar nudge—equal parts tease and invitation.

She raised an eyebrow—not that he could see it, but it was there. Sharp, skeptical, and very much amused.

"You say that like you weren't the one who sent me ten titles in one weekend."

He laughed, quiet and unassuming. "If memory serves, I was just trying to impress you with my taste."

She hummed thoughtfully. "Impress me with a collection of emotionally devastating novels and obscure poetry? Bold move."

"Well," he said, with the kind of smile one could hear over the phone, or at least she could, "nothing says character depth like someone who's into fragmented narratives and slow existential burn."

She rolled her eyes softly. "Right, because nothing wins a girl over like the quiet heartbreak of post-war fiction."

"Exactly," he replied. "It's timeless romance... just with literary suffering."

She laughed, unwilling but unable to stop herself. The ease of it surprised her, especially after the tightness earlier. She hated how quickly she fell back into rhythm with him. Like no years had passed. Like this conversation wasn't borrowed time.

But even as the banter flowed, she could feel the way his words tugged at her, just slightly. Not in a loud or direct way. More like a string pulled loose at the edge of a sweater—barely felt, but impossible to ignore.

"Well," she said, shifting the mug on the window sill even though it had nothing left to offer, "I should probably... sleep, or pretend to." 

He hesitated, then said, "Yeah. Same. I mean, I should get going. It must be pretty late for you there. You still sleep past midnight?"

She blinked—softly surprised. He remembered?

It wasn't a grand thing. Just one of those details slipped in quietly, without emphasis. He knew her habit. Still remembered it, or had noticed it once, long ago, and hadn't let it go.

She didn't rush to comment on it. Just let the thought trail through her mind. Familiar, but unexpected.

"Not proud of it," she said after a beat, keeping her tone light. "But yes. Still a disgrace to circadian rhythm."

"Some things don't change," he said, quiet and matter-of-fact.

"Apparently," she murmured, tapping her finger gently on the sill. "Anyway... rain's not helping."

"What, you sleep better when it's loud and theatrical?"

She chuckled, the sound light against the stillness. "Of course not," she said. "It's just... too perfect to sleep through. The kind of weather you watch, not ignore."

He laughed—low, easy, genuine. "Sounds like weather therapy."

"Yeah, it's the kind of night that makes sleep feel... optional."

He gave a contemplative hum. "The kind that pulls you into staring out of the window and life reassessment?"

"Hmmm, maybe." She didn't miss how precisely he'd landed it—like he'd traced the outline of her reality without even trying. Then again, with him, it had always been like that. He just always was so spot-on with his readings.

"Been raining here too," he offered, casual but not throwaway. "Not dramatic, like India's monsoons. Just slow, like it can't decide if it wants to commit."

"Sounds familiar," she said, leaning her temple lightly against the windowpane for a beat.

They weren't really talking about the weather. Not entirely.

But it set the tone—the quiet in the air, the way neither of them quite wanted to say goodbye. Something soft was stirring again, though both had every reason to resist it.

Funny how life works sometimes. Old feelings sneak back when you're not looking, reminding you that just because something's quiet, doesn't mean it's gone.

Or maybe that's the thing about those leftover embers—the last flicker from a fire you thought had burned out. Just enough glow to make you believe again... before fading into ash all over again.

He cleared his throat. "Funny how rain makes people reflective. Or stupid."

"Maybe both," she said, her voice the sound of half-smiles and almost-agreements.

"Yes, both."

Some connections defy time's arithmetic. You meet someone once, and it feels more like remembering than discovering—like a version of you already knows a version of them. That's exactly how it had felt the first time she met him. They'd just... clicked.

And then, there are the ones you reconnect with years later—after life has spun its stories and scattered you across separate paths. You hear their voice again, and it still fits. Not perfectly. Not like before. But unmistakably. Changed circumstances. Different cities. Yet somehow, the rhythm between you remains familiar—like the world shifted around you but left a quiet space where the two of you still made sense.

She didn't say it out loud, but she could feel it now. With him. That quiet familiarity beneath all the static. A sense that, despite everything that had changed, this—whatever it was—hadn't disappeared completely. 

She pulled her hoodie over her head, more out of habit than cold. "It's getting late," she said, "I should probably go get some sleep."

He paused just a breath too long. "Yeah, probably should."

He didn't say much. Just a soft shift in breath, like he wanted to stay but hadn't found the words to ask. She caught it. She always had. That gentle reluctance tucked into silence. But this time, she didn't lean in to meet it halfway.

A beat passed.

"But if you can't," he added, voice nonchalant, "I don't mind staying on the line a little longer."

She smiled faintly, tracing the seam of her sleeve. "It's Friday night. I think I've been enough sleep deprived through the week to manage."

He let out a soft laugh. "Fair. Just saying—no trouble either way."

There was comfort in the way they danced around meaning. Like they both knew the undertow but weren't ready to name it.

She let the quiet hang for a moment, then wrapped it up neatly. "Goodnight, then."

"Yeah, yeah, umm, goodnight." He said, but didn't end the call.

She nodded to herself, quietly. Maybe he had meant well. Maybe the call had been a nostalgic whim. But she was no longer built to stretch moments just for what-ifs. She knew now: he would always be the one who drifts away—and she couldn't keep waiting, hoping the drift would circle back to her.

"Take care," he added.

She didn't respond. She tapped the screen quickly, not leaving space for second thoughts. Not dramatic. Just done. The quiet afterward wasn't heavy—just hollow in the way some endings are when you've decided not to chase them. 

Some people weren't meant to stay. Some were just passing through, leaving behind a flicker of warmth and a faint ache. And sometimes, it was better to call the credits early—before the plot twists drag you back into a story that already wrote its ending.

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Would love to ready your thoughts. I know the ending is uncharacteristic. I believe some closures and some moments are like that. Let me know what your thoughts are.

I can almost see some readers demanding to rewrite their story. Honestly, even I was in two minds. I wanted to give them a second chance, but I reasoned that it would be unreal. I don't think life gives chances like that. I will wait for the response.

P.S. I am obsessed with the album of Metro... In dino, if you didn't notice already (honestly, it's an acquired taste!) 

P.s.s. If you liked this story, do share it on your socials (Insta/X/Reddit). Apparently that's how people discover books also these days. :)

–Anami!♡