Nysa's POV

Dear Diary,

It’s been fourteen days.

Fourteen days of conversations.

Fourteen days of glimpses into the boy I once thought I could only admire from afar.

It started casually — a reply to a story, , a question about some random song. I didn’t expect it to stretch beyond a few polite words.

But it did.

We talked.

And then we kept talking.

About college. About books. About how chaotic his life is .

About how his mom loves him more than his sisters

About how he overthinks sometimes but hides it well.

About how social media exhausts him but silence scares him too.

Every word he said?

It wasn’t loud or flashy. It didn’t scream for attention.

It was calm. Thoughtful. Effortless.

The kind of maturity people rarely notice, because they’re too busy judging from the outside.

And suddenly, the stories? The warnings?

They felt… shallow. Like echoes of someone else’s version of him.

Yes, he’s not perfect.

He’s still careless with his replies. He still randomly disappears.

But in those 14 days — I saw a different side.

I saw his mind.

And I liked it more than I should have.

Not the way he looked. Not the way he smiled.

But the way he listened.

He didn’t interrupt when I talked about things that didn’t matter.

He didn’t judge me when I told him how I told him I overthink a lot

He didn’t flirt.

He didn’t lead me on.

He just… spoke. Genuinely. Softly. With thought.

And that?

That’s what wrecked me.

Because now I know — it’s not just a stupid crush.

It’s the way my heart slows down when I see his name light up my phone.

It’s the way my fingers hover over the keyboard when he says something kind.

It’s the way I read his messages again, even when they’re just one-liners.

And yet… I know.

He’s not mine.

He’s probably never going to be.

Because he’s Apurv Sharma — everyone’s favorite mystery.

And I? I’m just the girl who fell too fast, too quiet, too deep.

So maybe this was all it was meant to be.

Fourteen days of everything I’ll never have again.

But thank you, fate.

For letting me see him for who he is — if only for a little while.

Love,

Naysa

We were talking about food that evening.

Just like that — one topic melted into another the way it always did with him.

Apurv had a strange love for details.

He didn’t just say “I love sweets.”

He said, “Bengali sweets are magic… like soft, edible clouds. Mishti Doi, Roshogolla, Sandesh — the real ones from a Bengali home. Not the packaged stuff.”

I laughed. “You talk about mithai like it’s poetry.”

He shrugged. “Good food deserves it.”

And then, just like that —

I said it.

“What if I bring you some? When I come from home There’s a shop near our place — the owner’s Bengali.

There was silence for a second.

A pause I couldn’t read.

His reply came slow.

Measured.

“You’d do that?”

I smiled, but didn’t type it.

“Maybe,” I wrote back. “If you don’t disappear on me before that.”

He replied with a laughing emoji and then,

“Fair. But sweets aren’t something you promise easily, Naysa. I take them seriously.”

“So do I,” I whispered to my screen.

But what I didn’t tell him was what that moment meant to me.

It wasn’t just about sweets.

It was about offering something small and real in a world where everything felt so filtered, so temporary.

It was about creating a future moment — even if it was just handing over a box of mishti — just to know I could give him something that made him smile.

Even if it was just once.

Even if it never happened.

Because he didn’t say yes.

He didn’t say no, either.

He just… went quiet for a second, like he didn’t know what to do with that kind of softness.

And honestly?

I get it.

Sometimes even sweetness can scare people who’ve only ever expected bitterness.

So maybe he didn’t understand what I was offering.

But I knew.

It was just a “maybe.”

A fragile, sugar-laced promise.

But to me — it was the sweetest "if" I’ve ever meant.

It was a quiet Saturday.

The kind of Saturday where the sky is dull, your practicals are dragging on, and you just want to disappear inside your lab coat and not feel anything at all.

I’d texted him that morning.

A simple message.

“Got your favourite mithai. You’ll have to come to my college to claim it 😄”

And below that, for the first time, my number.

No games. No expectations.

Okay — maybe one tiny hope.

But my heart had already started rehearsing disappointment.

I had told myself he wouldn't come.

Because Apurv Sharma doesn’t show up.

He’s the kind of boy who slips through cracks. Who exists in half-conversations and unread messages.

Not in real-life moments like this.

Still, I sent him the location.

Just in case.

And then I vanished.

Into Prosthodontics.

Into metal crowns, baseplates, forceps, and the cold silence of pretending he didn’t exist.

I didn’t want to check my phone.

Didn’t want to face that he’d seen it — or worse — ignored it.

So I did what I was best at:

Faking normal while my chest ached like a quiet bruise.

It was around3:57 PM.

I was rinsing my instruments when my phone buzzed.

Once.

Twice.

Call from: Apurv Sharma

I froze.

Like my entire bloodstream just forgot how to flow.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

He called.

He actually called.

For a second I thought I imagined it.

Maybe it was some other “Apurv.” Maybe my mind had conjured the name.

But no.

It was him.

The boy I had written pages about in my diary.

The boy I had convinced myself would never show up.

And now?

He was trying to find me.

I stared at the screen like it was some sort of parallel universe.

I didn’t pick up.

Not because I didn’t want to.

But because I didn’t know what to say.

What do you say when something you dreamed about — actually happens?

When someone you love from a distance suddenly crosses that invisible line?

Do you smile?

Cry?

Laugh at your own madness?

Or just… freeze?

Because that’s what I did.

For ten whole seconds.

And in those seconds — my heart didn’t beat like it was broken anymore.

It raced like it remembered what hope feels like.