Chapter Eighteen: A Week of Silence, A Flicker of Light
807 Words
Pakhi’s POV
The first message came on Monday.
“You’ve spoiled the design standards now. The slides look miserable without your judgmental comments.”
She had seen it while walking out of her office building in the evening, the fading sun washing the glass doors in gold. Her heart had skipped a beat, her thumb had trembled… but she replied the way she was supposed to:
“I’ll share comments once the next version comes.”
Formal. Cold. Professional.
She’d read the message five times before replying — and stared at her own response for ten minutes after sending it.
On Tuesday, the message came earlier.
“Hope your presentation to the Mumbai team went well. If they didn’t fall in love with your voice, they definitely fell for the slide aesthetics.”
It stung.
Because Rehaan had always remembered the little things — things like her nervousness before major meetings, or how she triple-checked fonts and bullet alignment as if the company’s fate depended on it.
She replied:
“Yes, the meeting went well. Final report will follow by EOD.”
Another wall. Another layer of armor.
But inside, something felt too loud for silence.
By Thursday, she was waiting.
Waiting not for the message, but for herself — to not react.
And failing.
“Don’t forget to eat lunch today. Your texts are sounding dangerously low-blood-sugar-ish.”
She didn’t smile.
Not out loud. Not to anyone.
But her phone knew. It vibrated under her palm, as if it, too, could sense that she was losing this battle with herself.
Still, her response:
“Thanks for the reminder. Working on client feedback now.”
Friday came with exhaustion and with it — a quieter message.
“You’ve probably had a long week. Hope you get some real rest. Take care, Pakhi.”
That one she didn’t reply to.
She couldn’t.
Because she’d actually needed to hear those words. And when you start needing something… you become afraid of it.
So she turned off her notifications, got under the blanket, and cried silently for two whole minutes. Not because of the message.
But because she still cared.
Saturday Morning
She took extra time getting dressed.
The house was quieter than usual — her parents were more hopeful than intrusive now, giving her space before her second meeting with Arjun.
This time, she chose a pastel blue kurti with delicate embroidery.
Subtle, elegant — something that didn’t try too hard, but still looked soft enough to be remembered.
She tied her hair into a loose braid, slipped on her pearl earrings, and looked at herself in the mirror.
“He’s not Rehaan,” she told herself, “but he’s kind. And that has to be enough.”
She held on to that thought all the way to the cafe.
The Second Date
Arjun was already there when she arrived. Dressed in a beige shirt, clean-shaven, polite smile.
He stood up, pulled the chair for her.
His eyes didn’t wander. His tone wasn’t rehearsed.
And yet… her heart stayed completely still.
They spoke about books.
She told him about her favorite chai spot in Ahmedabad.
He confessed he still didn’t understand Google Sheets.
She laughed genuinely — once.
It wasn’t bad. Not magical either. But peaceful.
At one point, she caught herself comparing the rhythm of this conversation to those she had with Rehaan — and quickly forced her mind elsewhere.
When the bill came, Arjun insisted on paying.
He said, “Let’s not overthink things. This was nice. If you’d like, we can do it again?”
She nodded with polite hesitation.
Not because she didn’t want to try —
but because she didn’t know what her heart was still holding on to.
That Night
She came home exhausted. Not from the meeting — but from pretending.
From trying to act like her heart was something she could reboot with logic.
She changed into her pajamas, washed her face, and sat on the edge of her bed.
The phone was right there.
Waiting.
Quiet.
Loyal.
She unlocked it. Opened w******p.
Rehaan’s last message stared back at her:
“Okay, I’ll stop now. I just wanted you to know you’re missed. No pressure. Just... truth.”
She read it again.
And this time… it didn’t hurt.
It just made her ache.
Slowly, without letting herself think too much, she typed:
Pakhi:
“You’re right. Fonts have been a tragedy without my micromanaging.”
“Also… thanks. For not pushing. And for being kind, even when I wasn’t.”
She stared at the message.
Backspace. Type again.
Pause.
Then, finally — she hit send.
In that moment, it wasn’t forgiveness.
It wasn’t love.
But it was the first time in weeks that she allowed herself to step back into the light —
with trembling fingers, but an open heart.
- Writer
