Some words stay stuck in the throat - heavy, unsaid, yet louder than anything spoken.
Arjun had drafted a message at least ten times that week.
"Can we talk?"
"Do you still want this?"
"I miss you. Every day."
Each time, he backspaced the letters slowly, as if erasing a hope too fragile to say out loud.
Instead, he replied to her casual messages with polite emojis and updates about the weather. Safe topics. Shallow waters.
Shruthi noticed it - the shift.
His texts were shorter. His voice was calm but distant. Like he was folding himself inward, preparing to disappear without noise.
She missed the warmth in his "hello," the quiet tease in his laughter, the gentle "Did you eat?" that used to feel like home.
She wanted to ask, "Why are you slipping away?"
But instead, she sent:
"Busy week. Hope your work's fine."
That night, Arjun spoke to his reflection.
"I love her. But I feel invisible.
I show up every day. But is that still enough?"
He looked at an old polaroid on the shelf - her cheeks dimpled, arms wrapped around his neck, wind in their hair.
They were younger then. Braver with words. Bolder with dreams.
Shruthi opened her journal. She hadn't written in months. But tonight, she did.
"Why am I afraid to tell him I miss him?
Why do I wait for the perfect moment when every moment is slipping away?"
She stared at her phone screen, hovered over Arjun's contact, then whispered,
"Say something, Shruthi. Or he'll stop waiting."