Chapter Nineteen: Night Whispers and Smiling Screens
613 Words
Rehaan’s POV
He wasn’t expecting it.
Not tonight.
It was well past 10 PM. The lights in his room were dimmed, the fan made a low hum overhead, and his phone was half-charged — abandoned at the corner of his bed while he lazily scrolled through an article on startup burnouts.
That’s when the familiar ping of w******p echoed into the quiet.
He didn’t check it immediately.
But something in his chest tightened.
He reached for the phone absentmindedly — almost not hoping — until his thumb froze on the notification bar.
Pakhi Sharma
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.
His eyes locked on the screen for longer than they should have.
The corner of his lips pulled into a smile — slow, involuntary, and so deeply relieved it hurt.
She replied.
She actually replied.
Not formally. Not coldly.
It wasn’t just acknowledgment — it was her voice again. That sharp, warm, teasing voice he missed more than he dared to admit.
He leaned back against the headboard, thumbs moving without hesitation now:
Rehaan:
Tragic is an understatement. It’s been a crime scene. Helvetica has been abused beyond repair.
Seconds later, the typing bubble appeared.
He felt lighter already.
Pakhi:
Then it’s a miracle your deck didn’t get arrested.
Also — Helvetica? Seriously? That’s your villain origin font?
Rehaan:
You always judge me for Helvetica. It’s clean. Professional. Unlike your obsession with Baskerville Italic.
You’re practically begging for font drama.
Pakhi:
Baskerville is art. It has personality.
You’re just terrified of curves and character.
He chuckled — actually laughed, out loud, into the quiet of his room. It had been so long since they talked like this. So easy. So unguarded.
He replied:
Rehaan:
Terrified? Ma’am, I’ve survived your design reviews. I fear nothing now. Not even Comic Sans.
Okay, maybe Comic Sans.
Pakhi:
Even you have limits, Shaikh.
Rehaan:
Everyone does. Mine is clip art in client decks.
...And losing touch with you.
The typing bubble vanished.
His breath caught for a moment. Maybe it was too soon.
But after a pause — it came back.
Pakhi:
I didn’t mean to shut you out.
I just didn’t know what to do with… everything.
He read her message three times before replying.
Rehaan:
It’s okay. I didn’t write to change your mind. I just… couldn’t pretend you didn’t matter to me.
Pakhi:
You make it very hard to stay mad, you know.
Rehaan:
That’s the goal. I’m charming like that.
And dashingly persistent.
Pakhi:
Don’t flatter yourself. You’re marginally tolerable.
Rehaan:
And yet here we are. Talking fonts and crimes against design.
Pakhi:
It’s 1:12 AM. I should hate myself for staying up, but this is oddly... peaceful.
Rehaan:
Same. I was supposed to sleep two hours ago.
But this… feels like breathing again.
A lull followed. Not silence, but the kind that’s warm — like sitting beside someone in the dark and not needing to say more.
His eyes were getting heavier, but he didn’t want the conversation to end.
Rehaan:
Pakhi?
No reply.
A minute passed.
Then two.
He smiled.
She’d fallen asleep.
Maybe with the phone still in her hand.
He typed one last message.
Rehaan:
Goodnight, Miss Sharma. Sleep well. You’ve been missed more than you’ll ever know.
And yes — Helvetica is overrated. 💤
He placed the phone down beside him, a quiet calm washing over him.
She was still miles away.
Still unreachable in so many ways.
But tonight, for the first time in weeks, her voice had found its way back to him.
And he… finally slept without restlessness.
- Writer
