Chapter 5 – Things That Hurt in Silence
The next day, the weather turned grey.
The kind of grey that didn't promise rain, but still made everything feel heavier. The sky looked like it had secrets — the same kind Elina and Ansh kept in their eyes. The streets outside the hotel were quieter than usual. Even the birds seemed slower.
Ansh sat by the window in their small hotel room, sketchbook in hand. Pencil unmoving. His other hand, gloved, rested limply on his lap. He hadn't drawn anything that morning. He hadn't really tried.
Behind him, Elina was packing a small day bag.
"I thought we could check out that bookshop you mentioned yesterday," she said, not looking up. "It's only a ten-minute walk."
He didn't answer right away.
Then: "Yeah. Okay."
Her voice was too light, his too flat. But they both knew this was how they'd been communicating lately — trying not to disturb the glass between them.
The bookshop was tucked between two silent alleyways. It had chipped paint, ivy curling around its signboard, and a tiny bell that jingled when they stepped inside. The warmth and the smell of old pages wrapped around them immediately — like the kind of comfort no person could give.
Elina wandered off, fingers trailing along shelves.
Ansh stayed close to the entrance, not out of disinterest, but because his legs felt weak again. He leaned slightly against a shelf, pretending to scan titles. His glove slipped slightly, revealing the pale skin of his wrist — bruised from another injection, another test.
She noticed it from the corner of her eye.
But she didn't say anything.
Because asking was harder than pretending.
They moved through the aisles quietly.
Sometimes Elina would pause and smile at a book cover. Sometimes Ansh would open a page and forget to read it. Every now and then, their eyes met — not for too long. Just enough to say: "I see you."
They didn't buy anything.
On their way out, the shopkeeper gave Elina a pressed flower bookmark for free.
"Something to remember this city by," she said.
Ansh almost smiled.
But it didn't reach his eyes.
Outside, they walked toward the town square.
There was an old man playing the violin by the fountain. The music was soft — almost broken. It reminded Elina of something she couldn't name, and Ansh of a life he wasn't sure he'd reach the end of.
They sat on a bench nearby.
"You haven't said much today," she said.
Ansh looked at the fountain. "Didn't think I needed to."
"You don't," she admitted. "But sometimes… I wish you would anyway."
He didn't respond. But the silence between them started to feel like it had edges.
"I used to think love was supposed to fix everything," Elina said after a while.
"Make you brave. Make things clearer."
He glanced at her. "And now?"
"Now I think love just makes you stay. Even when it hurts."
The violin stopped playing.
The square felt too quiet.
Ansh looked down at his hands. The tremble was back. He tightened his grip, but it only made his wrist throb. He winced — subtly.
Elina noticed. She looked at him, really looked.
"You're in pain," she said gently.
He shook his head.
"You are," she insisted. "You just don't want me to carry it with you."
He didn't deny it.
Didn't confirm it either.
She leaned back. "That's the thing about love, Ansh. You don't get to choose what the other person wants to carry."
They sat in silence for a long while.
At some point, it started to drizzle — soft drops tapping against their coats and the stone path. People around them began to leave. But they stayed.
And when Elina finally stood, she didn't ask if he was okay.
And he didn't ask her to stay.
They just walked back together, slowly. Side by side. The kind of slow that felt intentional. Like neither of them wanted to reach wherever they were going.
That night, back in the hotel room, Ansh couldn't sleep.
The pain had spread to his shoulder. A dull burn that reminded him of everything he hadn't told her. He sat upright, blanket falling around his waist, and stared at the nightlight reflecting off the glass window.
He thought about what Elina had said.
"You don't get to choose what the other person wants to carry."
He looked over at her bed — she was turned away, breathing softly.
And for the first time in weeks, he whispered something into the dark:
"I don't want you to carry it… because I'm scared you'll leave it halfway."
She didn't hear it.
Or maybe she did.
Either way, she didn't move.
[End of Chapter 5]