Nysa's POV

“I don’t care about him anymore,” I said, sipping chai with a smile that didn't touch my eyes.

Kritika raised a brow. “You sure? Because last week you—”

“I’m sure,” I interrupted. Too quickly.

They nodded. Maybe they believed me. Maybe they were tired of asking.

But deep inside, I knew… I had lied.

Because the truth is, no matter what anyone said about Apurv —

that he was too proud, that he flirted too much, that he never took any girl seriously —

I couldn’t make myself believe it.

They called him a heartbreaker.

I still remembered the way he looked away from me in the corridor — not cruelly, but distantly. Like I had never existed.

And somehow… that hurt more than any insult ever could.

I kept telling myself I was over him.

That it was foolish. One-sided. That I had better things to focus on.

But there I was, again, lying in bed at midnight… staring at his name on Instagram.

Private account.

Still.

Always.

I sighed, my thumb hovering over the screen.

Then, in a moment of quiet desperation, I did what I swore I wouldn’t.

I borrowed my friend Anvi’s phone — the one who was in the same circle as him — and I sent a follow request from her account.

Just to see.

Maybe he’d accept it, thinking it was nothing.

And then maybe I could catch a glimpse… just one… into his world. What he posted. What he shared. If he looked happy. If he still looked the same.

Days passed.

One. Two. Three.

Nothing.

By day five, I began checking Anvi’s Instagram more than my own.

Still nothing.

The silence began to stretch like an ache in my chest. Not because he didn’t follow back — but because somewhere, I had hoped that maybe he’d remember me.

Just once.

By day seven, the request was still hanging — like my feelings.

And my mind? Loud again.

Maybe he’s not even active.

Maybe he saw it and ignored it.

Maybe he doesn’t care.

Maybe he never did.

I sat on the hostel terrace that night, arms folded around my knees.

The stars looked like stories I couldn’t reach.

And Apurv — he felt like a memory I couldn’t erase, no matter how many times I hit "backspace" in my mind.

My phone buzzed — a message from Kritika.

"Still stalking his profile?"

I stared at it for a long time before replying.

"No. Just checking something."

Another lie.

But this time, I wasn’t lying to her.

I was lying to myself.

It’s been sixteen days.

Sixteen days since I sent that request from Anvi’s account.

Sixteen days since I told myself, Just a peek.

Sixteen days since I whispered in the mirror, If he accepts, I’ll let go after that.

He didn’t accept.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

But still… every night before I sleep, my fingers drift to Anvi’s profile. Just to check. Just to see that same gray “Requested” button — still there. Still unanswered.

Like me.

It’s strange, the way silence becomes a language.

The way someone’s absence can start speaking louder than their presence ever did.

I pretend I don’t care.

I focus on classes, practicals, viva prep, long notes.

I laugh with my friends, scroll through reels, even flirt back when some junior from the pharmacy wing cracks a joke at the café table.

But when I’m alone —

My eyes wander to places he used to be.

My heart still jumps at the echo of his name in a corridor.

My stomach still flips when someone says “Sharma” during roll call, even when it’s not him.

My friends keep saying the same things:

“He’s not worth it.”

“You’re wasting your energy.”

“He doesn’t even remember your name.”

But I remember his voice, the way he talk with his friend once.

I remember the exact way his cuff was folded when I first saw him.

I remember that tiny frown on his forehead when he was focused on his phone

They don’t get it.

I don’t want him because he’s perfect.

I want him because he was real in a world where I never felt seen.

And maybe that’s why it hurts so much —

Because he saw right through me.

Not into me.

Through me.

Some days, I convince myself I’m over it.

Other days, I catch myself writing his initials in the corner of my notebook like some lovesick schoolgirl.

I delete them. Always.

But the ink remains.

Invisible. Permanent.

Tonight, as I scroll one last time before sleep, I see it again — that request.

Still pending.

Still unread.

Still… me, waiting in a room that was never mine to enter.

Maybe I’m not in love with him anymore.

Maybe I’m just in love with the idea that, once, I felt something too strong to ignore.

And maybe that idea is the only thing I have left. That night when i wrote about him once again

Dear Diary,

I think I’m over him.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

Like a line I rehearse enough times hoping someday it will feel true.

I don’t check his profile anymore.

I don’t ask Kritika if he came to class or if he was in the ward today.

I don’t stay up at night replaying that first glance in the hospital corridor.

But then again…

I still remember how he walked.

How his voice sounded when he laughed at something someone else said.

How his name looked on my screen — unread, untouchable, unreachable.

I tell people I’ve moved on.

That it was childish, fleeting, one-sided.

That I’ve grown past it, past him.

But the truth is…

He’s still there.

In the songs I skip because they sound too much like him.

In the way I avoid that hospital floor even though i had to visit

In the silence between me and the world when everyone else seems loud and full and I feel like I’m pretending just to belong.

He’s still there.

Not as a person I wait for anymore.

But as a wound that never bled out loud, only quietly bruised me from inside.

Soft. Constant. Invisible.

Maybe I am over him.

But my heart — the stupid, stubborn heart —

still flinches at his name.

Still searches for his face in the crowd.

Still hopes… even when it knows better.

I hate that.

But I guess, this is what it means to feel something real —

It doesn’t leave just because you tell it to.

So tonight, Diary, I’ll say it again.

I’m over him.

I have to be.

Even if my heart whispers a different story every time I close my eyes.

– Naysa