Chapter 3 – "Things We Almost Said"
The lights were off, but the city hadn't gone quiet.
Through the thin hotel curtains, Ansh could still hear faint music drifting in from a nearby street — maybe a violin, maybe a radio.
He was lying on the carpet again. Not because it was comfortable, but because it was the only thing in the room that didn't feel borrowed.
The door creaked.
Elina stepped in, slowly. No knock. Just the soft rhythm of her socks on old wood. She sat beside him again, same as the night before. Not across. Not distant.
She didn't ask permission. He didn't offer it.
"I couldn't sleep," she said.
Ansh didn't look at her. "That's what guilt does."
She let that sit.
"Is that what this is? Guilt?"
"Isn't it?"
She didn't reply.
The silence between them stretched, but it didn't strain.
It was the kind of silence that had weight, history. The kind that said more than apologies ever could.
"I almost called you a few years ago," Elina said.
"When?"
"When my mother passed."
He turned his head slightly toward her.
"I was in Istanbul. I had no one around. I thought about calling you. I actually dialed, but… I froze."
Ansh closed his eyes.
"Why didn't you?"
She shrugged. "You felt like another life. A better one. But too far gone."
He didn't answer. But his fingers curled into fists.
"I thought I'd feel less alone without you," she added.
He chuckled, dry. "And did you?"
"No."
A pause.
Then she said quietly, "What happened to your hand?"
Ansh's shoulders stiffened.
"You're hiding it."
"I'm protecting it."
"From what?"
He took a beat. Then lied.
"An old nerve injury. Occupational damage. Long hours in the studio."
She didn't believe him.
But she didn't push either.
Instead, she said, "I miss how easy it was to talk to you."
"It was never easy," he replied. "We just used to pretend we were better at it."
Elina sighed. "Maybe that's why I'm here. To say the things I never did."
"You had years."
"And so did you."
The floor felt colder than before.
Ansh finally sat up, slowly. His hand was tingling again — pins and needles now. A warning sign. He flexed it, hiding the twitch.
Elina watched him, her eyes softening with something dangerously close to worry.
"I think we broke each other," she whispered.
"No," he said. "We broke ourselves. We just didn't know it until after."
She looked away.
"I'm not in love with him," she said suddenly.
The confession hung in the air like smoke. Dense. Unavoidable.
Ansh froze.
"I thought maybe I could be. That if I said yes enough times, it would become true."
He didn't speak.
"I'm still marrying him," she added.
That broke something small and silent inside him.
He stood up.
"Elina—"
She stood too. "You don't have to say anything. I just needed to say it out loud."
He stared at her. Her eyes looked more fragile in the dark.
"I don't want to fix anything," she added. "I just want to understand what we were."
Ansh shook his head. "We were two people too scared to admit how much we needed each other."
"And now?"
"Now one of us is still pretending."
She blinked. "Which one?"
"You tell me."
The next morning was colder.
They didn't speak during breakfast. The clinking of cups was the only sound between them.
The train ride to Vienna was quiet. But not empty.
Each look, each breath carried something unsaid.
Halfway through the journey, Elina fell asleep beside the window.
Ansh watched her — not in longing, not in anger — just in memory.
He remembered a different train, years ago, when she'd rested her head on his shoulder without asking. When silence had felt like peace, not pressure.
Now, he was afraid to even exhale too loudly.
In Vienna, they checked into another quiet hotel.
This time, no one said anything about separate rooms.
The receptionist asked if they wanted a double.
Neither corrected her.
That night, Elina didn't come to his room.
He sat by the window, writing half sentences in his notebook.
Every few lines, his hand failed him. The pen slid. Letters broke mid-curve.
He closed the notebook and just stared outside.
At 11:42 PM, his phone lit up. Her name.
"Can we walk?"
He replied:
"I'm downstairs."
They walked near the Danube canal, city lights rippling in the water.
Elina kept her hands in her pockets.
Ansh kept his gloves on.
"I thought Vienna would feel more magical," she said.
"It used to," he replied.
"Maybe we're too old for magic."
"No," he said. "Just too bruised."
She looked at him then. Properly.
"I still remember how you used to look at me," she said.
"How?"
"Like you were seeing something you didn't think you deserved."
He looked away. "Maybe I wasn't."
"You were."
They stopped at a small bench by the water. Sat in silence again.
Then she said, "Tell me something honest."
He looked at her.
"I'm scared," he said.
"Of me?"
"Of everything."
She nodded slowly. "Same."
The wind blew harder. Cold. Almost sharp.
Ansh's fingers stiffened under the gloves. He curled them into his jacket.
Elina noticed.
"What aren't you telling me?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Nothing you need to carry."
"I'm already carrying enough."
He didn't answer.
Just stared into the water, and whispered under his breath—
"Me too."
[End of Chapter 3]