I'm Suraj - a civil engineer by profession, born and raised in the ever-buzzing city of Mumbai. After school, I moved to Konkan for my engineering studies. Life since then had been a series of packed suitcases, new job sites, and endless deadlines. My visits home had shrunk to hurried holidays, mostly during Diwali, Ganesh chaturthi or a cousin's wedding - just enough to catch up, not enough to stay.

This trip was no different.

One of my closest childhood friends was getting married. No way I was missing it. The wedding was a grand celebration - dhol beats shaking the ground, marigold garlands in the air, laughter echoing like we were in a time capsule of our childhood. We danced like maniacs, pulled off old school moves, and talked about everything and nothing.

The night was perfect - until it wasn't.

After the final goodbyes, as everyone headed out, my bike suddenly sputtered and gave up on me. Everyone else had hitched rides or driven off in overloaded cars. I was left alone in the silence. My house was only 2.5 kilometers away. I figured I'd grab a rickshaw. No luck. Tried a cab - network dropped. Typical.

So I put on my headphones, turned on Instagram reels, and decided to walk.

The streets had changed. What used to be familiar lanes now felt like strangers pretending to smile. The buzz of the wedding still echoed faintly in the air when I reached a stretch of road where the streetlights flickered like they weren't sure if they wanted to stay on.

And then I heard it.

"Suraj, stop!"

A woman's voice - soft, familiar, yet ghostly. I froze, heartbeat pulsing in my throat. I turned around.

She stood there - alone under a flickering light. A faint smile on her lips.

"Where are you off to this late?"

Her face was calm. Too calm.

"Heading home," I said, trying to sound casual. "Bike broke down. No rides. So? walking it is."

She nodded. "Still the same. Always on the move."

Something about her voice made my skin prickle. Like an echo from the past I couldn't quite place.

"It's been years," she said gently.

"It has," I replied, still trying to remember her name, her face - anything.

"You barely come home," she continued. "Konkan, Bengaluru, pune, kerala then Chennai, always somewhere else."

I gave a nervous laugh. "Yeah, guilty. What about you?"

"I never left," she said. "School, college, job - everything happened here. I stayed back."

We walked side by side, our shadows stretching under the streetlights. The silence between us wasn't awkward - it was heavy. As if it carried stories neither of us had ever spoken aloud.

Then she asked, "What about your school girlfriend? You guys married yet?"

I almost tripped.

"Uh? no. We broke up years ago."

She paused. "I'm sorry."

Before I could ask anything, she continued, "And you? Still chasing deadlines? Big city life?"

I nodded. "Yeah. It pays the bills."

She smiled sadly. "And takes you further from everything that once mattered."

That hit deeper than I expected.

I looked at her more closely. Her eyes were kind, knowing. She asked about old classmates - by name, by memory. She remembered details I hadn't thought about in years. Yet I still couldn't remember her name.

"We were in Blue House, remember?" she said.

"Oh!" I said, startled. "You were in my group?"

She laughed. "You coached me for the debate competition. You gave me confidence."

It was slowly coming back. Her laugh. Her eyes. The way she used to raise her hand halfway, unsure if she should speak.

"What about you? Married? Dating?" I asked.

She looked away. "No. The one I loved never noticed me. He was? too busy being in love with someone else. After that, I just stopped trying."

"You're kidding," I said, stunned. "You're smart, confident, and beautiful. Seriously, no one caught your eye?"

She looked at me then - really looked. Her voice softened.

"Do you really mean that?"

"Of course."

She reached for my hand, fingers grazing mine. I didn't pull away. It felt right. Familiar. Like something forgotten, not new.

Suddenly, loud music burst through the air. A haldi ceremony nearby was still going strong. Lights flashing, drums pounding, people dancing like they were invincible.

She tugged my hand. "Let's dance."

"What? That's not our party."

"Does it matter?" she laughed, and before I could refuse, she pulled me in.

We danced like kids - spinning, laughing, drowning in the beat. I hadn't felt that alive in years.

When the music faded, I checked my phone. Dead. I felt a chill.

"My parents must be freaking out," I said. "Yours too?"

She smiled faintly. "No one's worried."

"What?"

"I told them," she said calmly. "Through a friend."

Her words hung in the air - strangely detached, oddly final.

We stepped out of the chaos and into the quiet again.

"So," she asked, "what's the plan for tomorrow?"

"Heading back to Chennai. Early morning."

"Oh," she said, eyes dimming. "I'll be here? like always."

"Let's meet next time I'm back," I offered. "Can't take your number - phone's dead. Maybe Insta?"

She stopped walking.

"Okay," she said. "But first? tell me one thing."

"What?"

"What's my name?"

I froze.

I couldn't say it.

"I? I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I didn't want to admit I didn't remember."

She stared at me. Her smile faded. Her eyes shimmered, but not from anger.

"Now do you remember?" she asked, almost a whisper.

And then - like a thunderclap - it all returned.

"Shruti?"

She nodded, a tear escaping.

"Your junior in school," she said. "Same house. Blue. You were our team leader. You encouraged me to speak up. We did that debate together. I? admired you. For everything. But you were in a relationship. And I - well - I never said anything. Until now."

I stepped closer and hugged her. She broke down in my arms.

"It's okay," I whispered. "Life? never goes as planned. But we carry on. We heal. We grow."

A loud truck horn shattered the night.

Everything went black.

I woke up in my bed. My head throbbed. My mother was yelling.

"Drunk last night, Suraj? We found you lying by the road! What if something had happened?"

I blinked.

"What? what time is it?"

"Morning! Thank your stars those neighbors saw you!"

I sat up, dazed.

I asked my brother, "Who brought me home?"

"Suresh uncle and them. Said you were unconscious near the footpath."

"Any accidents nearby? Anyone else?"

"Nope. Why?"

I checked my phone. Still dead.

Charged it. Scoured Instagram. Searched for her.

Found her account.

Last post - three years ago.

I messaged a schoolmate from her batch. My fingers trembled.

His reply came hours later.

"Shruti? She died three years ago. Truck accident? brakes failed. Right outside a wedding hall."

The air around me turned cold.

Same road. Same dance. Same truck.

I visited the site. Laid flowers. Sat there till dusk.

I still don't know what happened that night. Was it a dream? A ghost? My mind playing tricks?

But I know this - Shruti came back for one last walk. To say what she never could. To feel what she never allowed herself to feel.

Sometimes, the universe gives you a second chance.

Not to change the past, but to heal what was left unsaid.

If you love someone, tell them.

Before the night swallows the chance forever.

As I sat on the steps outside the wedding venue, the streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement, I thought about the strange night that had just unfolded. My thoughts were jumbled - part awe, part disbelief. Her eyes, that familiar softness, the words she spoke - they lingered like an old melody I couldn't forget.

The next few days were hard. I tried to get back to my usual routine in Chennai, but every quiet moment dragged me back to that walk. I would randomly pause during work meetings, distracted by the memory of her hand gently brushing mine, of her laughter echoing under the starry sky.

I even tried sketching her face from memory. I hadn't done that since college. It was imperfect, but each pencil stroke helped me feel closer to her, like I was preserving something precious before it faded away.

One night, I visited a local temple. I sat in front of the flickering diya, closed my eyes, and whispered, "Thank you, Shruti."

And then, just as I was leaving, I noticed a little girl at the gate - maybe 7 or 8 years old - selling jasmine flowers. She looked up at me and smiled. "Anna, poo vennuma?"

There was something about her eyes. I bought a strand and asked her name.

"Shruti," she said cheerfully.

I walked away, jasmine in hand, heart pounding.

Coincidence? Maybe. But I chose to believe it was her - one final sign that she was at peace? and that I should be too.

Since then, I've made a habit of walking home when I can. I keep my phone away, let the night speak, and sometimes - just sometimes - I feel like she's walking beside me.

Not all stories need endings. Some just need to be felt.

- Suraj