Chapter Eight: What Silence Costs
487 Words
Rehaan’s POV
Rehaan read Pakhi’s message three times.
Pakhi:
Yes. Let me know if there’s anything pending from our side. I’ll make sure to close it by morning.
Polite.
Sharp.
Distant.
She hadn’t said it outright, but the wall in her words was clear. It stood tall, clean, and deliberate — not built from anger, but from quiet disappointment.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hand over his face. The office lights were dimmed — most of the team had already left. Outside, the Bangalore night buzzed with the faint hum of traffic and drizzle.
His mind spun back to her voice on that last personal call. The easy way she laughed, the questions she asked without pushing too hard. She had let him in — slowly, shyly, beautifully.
And he had shut the door in return.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to open up.
It was that he didn’t know how — not without unraveling everything around him.
Zara had texted earlier that day:
“Dad said our parents spoke again. I think it’s becoming serious, Rehaan. Do you want this?”
He had stared at the message for minutes and then left it on read.
Because he didn’t know what to say to her either.
The weight of it all pressed hard against his chest — the pressure to be a good son, a good match, a good everything. But in that effort, he was slowly becoming someone who wasn't even sure what he wanted.
But he knew this:
He didn’t want to lose Pakhi.
Yet, he also didn’t have the courage to tell her the truth.
Not yet.
His phone buzzed again. This time, it was from Pakhi.
Pakhi:
I hope everything's okay on your end. You’ve seemed a little… off lately.
That was her. Still kind. Still asking.
And still hoping he’d give her more than his silence.
He stared at the message for a long time, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Words formed and disappeared.
“It’s complicated.”
“There’s something I haven’t told you.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been distant…”
He deleted them all.
Instead, he typed:
Rehaan:
Just been tired. A lot of things happening at once. I’ll catch up with everything by this weekend.
And he sent it.
A lie by omission.
A safe sentence that said nothing — and took everything.
He knew the moment she read it. The double-ticks turned blue.
No reply came.
And honestly, he didn’t expect one.
Because silence, once returned, rarely knocks twice.
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and let his head drop into his hands.
Maybe this was how it had to be.
Maybe he wasn’t allowed to want both — her, and their approval.
Maybe some loves were meant only to pass through your life like a monsoon storm — brief, beautiful, and leaving you changed forever.
Still… he missed her voice already.
- Writer
