Chapter Five: The Things We Don’t Say
459 Words
Pakhi’s POV
Pakhi hated how easily she noticed when someone’s tone changed.
In college, it had been her biggest emotional flaw — hearing too much in silence, reading too much into “I’m fine.” She had trained herself to ignore it over the years. To believe people when they said they were okay.
But Rehaan wasn’t okay. Not entirely.
Their messages had become a little less frequent. Not cold, never rude — but measured. Careful. The way people spoke when they were balancing something they didn’t want to admit.
She told herself it was just work. Or maybe she had imagined the warmth in those earlier calls. But that night, when her phone buzzed, she couldn’t lie to herself anymore.
Rehaan:
Hey. Just wanted to apologise for the delay in the tracker update. I’ve had… some things going on.
There it was again. The weight between the words.
She stared at her screen. Part of her wanted to ask. Another part — the softer, more self-protective one — stayed silent.
Pakhi:
No worries. Everyone’s allowed their “some things.” Hope you’re okay.
Three minutes passed. Then the typing bubble appeared.
Rehaan:
Yeah. I’m okay. Just some personal stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.
Pakhi felt the wall rise in that message.
It wasn’t cruel. It was distant. Like a gate being closed gently before she could peek through.
She didn’t push. She wouldn’t be that person — the one who demands intimacy just because of a few late-night calls and a handful of meaningful silences.
Still, it stung.
She thought about how much she had wanted to talk to him today. About her manager’s offhand comment on her “marriageable age.” About how her parents had forwarded her the biodata of some civil engineer in Pune with a smug smile.
She wanted to tell him how she had rolled her eyes, how it had annoyed her — not because of the guy, but because she couldn’t imagine anyone else at the other end of her phone anymore.
But he was dealing with his “some things.”
And she didn’t have the right to want more.
So she typed:
Pakhi:
Got it. Here if you ever want to talk. But no pressure.
And then she did something she hadn’t done in days.
She put the phone away before waiting for the typing bubble to appear.
Outside, Ahmedabad was slowly shifting from summer heat into monsoon slowness.
The wind had picked up. Somewhere far off, thunder echoed.
She sat by the window and let the night pass — with a strange, hollow ache in her chest.
Not heartbreak.
Not yet.
But the quiet realization that maybe…
some stories don’t get written beyond a few beautiful pages.
- Writer
