Diya lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The fan spun lazily above her, casting soft, repetitive shadows on the white walls. Her body was still aching, her heart even more so.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time, it was Harsh.
She almost didn't pick up. But something in her gut told her to answer.
"Hey," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Hey, Diya," Harsh said. "I know you're probably exhausted, but I wanted to check on you."
"I'm just… tired," she murmured.
Harsh didn't let her finish.
"Diya, I'm going to be honest with you," he said gently but firmly. "Stop keeping hope. I know it's hard, but you can't keep hurting yourself waiting for something that even he's unsure about."
She didn't respond. Her fingers clenched the blanket.
"He cares about you, I know that," Harsh continued. "But sometimes caring isn't enough. Sometimes, people pull away even when they don't mean to. You can't keep reading into every gesture and every silence."
"It's just…" she began, her throat tightening.
"I know," Harsh said, his voice softening. "I've seen how much you love him. But you have to stop expecting it to go back to what it was. Let it flow naturally. If he finds his way back, he will. But don't lose yourself while waiting."
Diya nodded silently. The words were sharp, but true.
Harsh, sensing the heaviness, shifted the topic. "So, guess what? There's a flash mob practice tomorrow in the courtyard. And the cafeteria's introducing some fancy burger that's already trending on campus."
Diya smiled faintly. "Of course, food trends over everything."
"That's the spirit," he chuckled. "You'll be okay, Diya. One step at a time."
They talked for five more minutes—light things, funny things. Just enough to let her breathe.
When the call ended, Diya rolled over, hoping sleep would finally come.
But then her phone lit up again.
Maddy: How are you now?
She stared at the message. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Typing…
Backspace.
Typing…
Delete.
In the end, she left it on read.
Because what could she even say?
"I'm not okay." "I feel lost." "I don't understand you anymore."
Instead, she put the phone away, turned off the light, and pulled the blanket over her head.
But sleep never came.
Her mind spun in a hundred directions—replaying the bottle, the words, the look on his face, the way it used to be.
Overthinking. Analyzing. Wondering.
Was she holding on to someone who had already let go?