Next day ~
The next morning feels heavier than usual. The house is quiet—too quiet. Sanvi notices her father hasn't gone to work. He's sitting at the dining table, unusually silent, a cup of tea gone cold in front of him. His eyes keep drifting toward the bedroom door, where her mother is getting ready, humming a tune as if nothing's wrong.
Sanvi exchanges a glance with her younger sister Aashvi, who has also picked up on the strange tension. Aryan, their brother, stays buried in his phone but even he feels the shift.
Last night, Sanvi had seen her father standing by the bedroom door, frozen, pale, after hearing something that clearly shook him. He didn't speak a word, just walked past her without looking.
After everything that happened, Sanvi's world changed.
She didn't return to her studies for months. The girl who once dreamed of becoming something big had quietly given it all up—at least for now. For the next three months, she stayed home, taking care of everything. The house. Her siblings. But most of all—her father.
He had changed.
Since that night, he barely spoke. Words had become strangers to him, and food… almost nonexistent. He hardly ate, barely slept. Sanvi would often find him sitting alone in the dark, staring at the wall, lost in thoughts no one else could reach.
And Aryan… poor Aryan. He would sometimes ask, in his small hopeful voice,
"When is Mom coming back?"
Their father would simply look at him—just look—his eyes hollow, his face unreadable. And then he'd turn away, slipping back into silence, like the question had never been asked.
The truth had already spread beyond the walls of their home. Neighbors, relatives… everyone knows now. So people started coming—one after another—to sit with her father, trying to console him. Offering kind words, advice, prayers.
But nothing seemed to reach him.
Sanvi watched it all quietly. She stood in the doorway during those visits, her hands stained with turmeric from the kitchen, or carrying a bucket of water from the backyard. She had stepped into her mother's shoes far too early.
And yet—nothing could fill that void.
Then one evening, her father made a decision. A quiet one, but firm.
He called the children into the living room, his voice calm but distant.
"I'm going alone," he said. "I'll continue working and staying there. You three will live with your grandmother. For your studies. For… everything else."
No one questioned him.
Sanvi packed the bags in silence. Folded the clothes. Wiped the shelves. She stood by the door, her heart heavy, but her face blank.
A few days after moving in with her grandmother, Sanvi left again—this time, not for home, but to return to her studies. She didn't say goodbye. There was nothing left to say.
She just walked away, her books clutched to her chest, eyes fixed on the road ahead, trying not to look back—because looking back meant falling apart.
After so many months, Sanvi finally returned to her hostel.
Everything looked the same—but nothing felt the same.
She walked through the gates with her bag slung weakly over her shoulder, her steps slower than before. Her frame had visibly changed—she had lost weight, her shoulders thinner, her face pale. The energy she once carried, that spark in her eyes—it had all faded.
As she stepped into the classroom, conversations halted.
All eyes turned to her.
A stunned silence filled the air. Her classmates, who hadn't seen her for over three months, could only stare—shocked, confused, curious. Whispers followed.
"Where was she all this time?"
"Is she okay?"
But Sanvi didn't stop. She walked straight to her bench, trying not to look up. Trying not to let her hands tremble.
Someone finally asked, "Sanvi, what happened to you?"
She gave a soft, hollow smile and replied,
"My health wasn't well. It got really bad…"
That was all she said. The truth was too heavy—too raw—to be shared.
As questions kept coming, Sanvi's mind drifted elsewhere. A deeper, heavier thought pulled at her heart. One name she hadn't allowed herself to think about in weeks came crashing back into her mind—Ahaan.
She hadn't spoken to him in more than three months.
She hadn't texted. Hadn't called. Hadn't even unblocked him.
And yet, today… today she would have to face him.
Sanvi, dressed simply in her faded shirt and jeans, hair tied back loosely, walked toward her classroom. A slight weakness tugged at her limbs, but she ignored it. Her body had grown tired—her soul, even more.
"I'm not someone who can explain myself to anyone anymore," she whispered to herself.
"All I want now is peace. To focus. No more mistakes."
Among them, sitting two rows away, was Ahaan.He couldn't move. Couldn't speak.
Because he saw it in her eyes—she didn't want to be seen. Not by anyone. Not even him.
And that crushed him.
The girl who once laughed the loudest now sat in silence.
The girl who used to fight for answers now avoided every question.
The girl who once leaned on him during every little problem—now didn't even look in his direction.
The moment his eyes met hers, something inside him shattered.
Because he knew Sanvi. He had fallen in love with the girl who talked back to teachers, laughed too loud, and always sat with her arms crossed like she didn't need anyone. He had loved the version of her who teased him, fought with him, and secretly smiled when she thought he wasn't looking.
He had imagined this moment a hundred times, a thousand. But nothing prepared him for the ache he felt when he saw her—thinner, quieter, changed. The pain in her eyes was unmistakable. And the way she didn't look at him—it felt like someone had ripped the breath from his chest.
He wanted to run to her.
To hold her.
To cup her face in his hands and ask—"Where were you? What happened? Why did you leave me like that?"
But he couldn't.
He just sat there—his hands clenched into fists, his lips trembling, his eyes misting over—as he waited for the class to end.
Waited for the chance to walk with her again.
To talk.
To be beside her, even if she no longer looked at him the same way.
Sanvi, on the other hand, could feel the weight of a hundred eyes on her—but none heavier than his. His gaze burned into her skin, but she didn't lift her head.
She couldn't.
To her, he no longer existed. Or at least… that's what she told herself.
****************