Nysa's pov

That night, as the lights in her hostel dimmed and the outside world slipped into sleep,

something inside Naysa shattered —

not with a scream,

but with the soft, irreversible sound of realization.

She lay in bed, tears drying unevenly on her cheeks,

breath caught somewhere between a sob and surrender.

It wasn’t about hope anymore.

It wasn’t even about him.

It was about her.

Her heart, the one that had stretched too far, waited too long, begged too silently.

Her soul, the one that kept whispering, just a little more… just a little more.

Her dignity — bruised but never broken — now quietly standing up from the floor.

“He will never be mine.”

The words echoed through her like thunder after too much silence.

Not bitter. Not angry.

Just… true.

She could try a thousand ways.

She could pray, she could wait, she could give and give and give —

but love wasn’t something you won with effort.

Love wasn’t something you begged for.

Love wasn’t meant to be taken Forcefully.

And she finally understood that.

She remembered all the small moments —

when she stalked his profile hoping he’d notice,

when she replayed their conversations like sacred scriptures,

when she laughed like everything was fine while breaking inside.

It was never fine.

It was never love — not from his side.

And now, for the first time, she looked at it without sugarcoating.

Not as a fantasy.

But as a wound she kept scratching, hoping it would become a garden.

“I don’t deserve this,” she whispered to herself.

Not because she thought she was better —

but because she knew she was enough.

She deserved a love that chose her freely.

Not one she had to beg from silence.

Not one that saw her as an option while she built temples in her heart for him.

She wiped the corner of her eyes.

The tears were not angry.

They were not begging.

They were just... done.

She sat up in bed, pulled her diary to her lap, and wrote just one line:

"Maybe this is the start of loving myself harder than I ever loved him."

And she meant it.

No resolutions. No promises. No overnight miracle.

But for the first time, she let the ache teach her something.

And for the first time, her heart listened not to his voice,

but to herself.

And slowly, she lay back down.

Not as the girl who waited.

But as the girl who had finally — finally — started to walk away.

Not from him.

But from the idea that she had to earn love to deserve it.

After him, Naysa stopped believing in love.

She didn't say it out loud, but it showed.

In the way she changed the subject when her friends talked about their crushes.

In how she deleted every old message that once meant everything.

In how she now laughed with restraint, as if joy had to be rationed.

She wore her strength like armor,

not to impress the world —

but to protect the little pieces of herself still aching inside.

Love?

No, thank you.

It was nothing but a pretty word wrapped in heartbreak.

And then he came.

Not as a storm.

Not with roses or dramatic gestures.

Not with promises that felt like borrowed poetry.

He came like wind —

gentle, unannounced,

and impossible to ignore once you felt him move through your world.

They met in the most ordinary way —

in a library, reaching for the same surgery book.

Their fingers brushed.

She didn’t even look up. Just whispered a quiet “sorry.”

He smiled. “Don’t be. Happens to the best of us.”

She thought it was nothing.

But it kept happening.

He’d sit a table away. Then a seat closer.

He'd share notes casually, never asking for anything in return.

He’d listen — actually listen — when she spoke about anything, from prostho lectures to how she hated coffee.

No games. No pressure. No assumptions.

He never slid into her DMs at midnight.

Never asked for pictures.

Never said “I miss you” just to keep her hooked.

He was just there.

Like a steady rhythm.

And it scared her.

She tried to push him away with sarcasm.

Tried to tell herself it was nothing.

But her heart — the same heart that once loved someone who never looked back —

noticed.

It noticed how he looked at her like she mattered.

How he asked “Did you eat today?” instead of “Where are you?”

How he never made her feel like she had to be more than what she was.

One evening, after a long study session, he offered her his last bite of chocolate and said:

“You know, love isn’t always fire. Sometimes, it’s just air — the thing that keeps you alive quietly.”

She didn’t reply.

But that night, she didn’t cry herself to sleep.

She didn’t write heartbreak poems in her diary.

She just lay in bed, fingers resting on the spine of her book,

and whispered to herself:

“Maybe… not all love is meant to hurt.”

And maybe — just maybe —

this wind wasn’t here to break her.

But to teach her how to breathe again.

It didn’t happen all at once.

There was no sudden realization, no movie-moment epiphany, no fireworks.

Just a boy who showed up.

Again. And again.

In all the places where silence used to live.

Aarav wasn’t loud.

He wasn’t charming like Apurv.

He didn’t flirt, didn’t try too hard.

But he noticed things.

He noticed when she hadn’t eaten.

When her eyes were swollen from crying at night.

When her silence wasn’t peace but a scream she was too tired to voice.

He didn’t say, “I’ll fix you.”

He said, “Do you want to sit with me?”

He said, “Can I walk you to class?”

He said, “I’m around if you need noise to distract your head.”

And before she realized it, he was part of her days.

He became the message waiting in her inbox when she woke up.

He became the chai she looked forward to at 5 PM.

He became the question she now asked: “Will Aarav be there too?”

He became… safe.

One evening, while walking back from library, Aarav said,

“You know, I don't want to be the guy who saves you.”

She stopped. Confused. “What?”

He smiled, soft and sure. “I just want to be someone who’s there while you save yourself.”

And something broke in her that day.

Not the way it used to — painfully.

But something heavy melted.

Because for once, someone didn’t want her love like a medal or a transaction.

He just… wanted her to be okay.

In between assignments, chai breaks, early morning library runs,

Aarav became a constant.

He never asked her to stop loving Apurv.

But he reminded her — every day — that she could be loved differently.

Not with longing.

Not with hurt.

But with patience.

With kindness.

With silence that felt like home.

And though she never said it out loud,

She knew it.

That someday, she’d look back at this time and say —

“That’s when I finally began healing.”

It had been one of those days.

No one had said anything cruel. No class had gone particularly bad. No storm had arrived.

But Naysa felt like she was crumbling from the inside — one invisible crack at a time.

She hadn’t replied to group messages. Had skipped lunch. Spent hours staring blankly at her textbook, rereading the same paragraph until it stopped making sense.

Everything felt like too much, and yet nothing at all.

The moment came in the evening — the final straw.

A random patient’s story in the hospital. A little girl whose father hadn’t shown up since her surgery. The way she said, “Papa will come… na?” broke something inside Naysa she didn’t know still existed.

When Aarav texted her,

> “Hey. Library?”

She just typed:

> “Not today. I can’t.”

He replied,

> “Okay. Want me to come sit with you instead?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have the energy to explain that this wasn’t about failing an exam or a bad day. This was grief with no name. Ache with no cause. A tiredness no sleep could fix.

Ten minutes later, he was at the hostel gate.

She walked down quietly. No makeup. Puffy eyes. No effort.

When he saw her, he didn’t say, You look tired.

Didn’t say, What happened?

He just nodded and said,

> “Come.”

They didn’t go far — just sat on the stone bench near the temple by the side road.

The city noise was distant.

The crickets were loud.

For a long time, she didn’t speak. Just stared at the ground. Her fingers twitching, her throat tight, a storm inside her she couldn’t name.

Then, quietly, she said:

> “Do you think some people are meant to always carry this heaviness?”

Aarav didn’t rush in to comfort. Didn’t say no.

Instead, he said,

> “I think some people carry more because they feel more. And maybe… maybe that's not weakness. Maybe that’s strength.”

She looked at him.

Not because it was profound — but because it felt real.

Her lips quivered. A tear slipped out before she could hide it.

> “I hate feeling this much.”

Aarav nodded.

> “I know. But I’d rather feel deeply than feel nothing at all.”

She exhaled, finally.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t hug her.

But he stayed. Silent. Steady. Like a shore that doesn’t push back when the waves crash.

When she finally stood up to leave, she whispered,

> “Thank you.”

He smiled, just a little.

> “Anytime, Naysa. Even if you never say anything.”

That night, she cried.

But for the first time… she didn’t feel alone.

They were walking back from the library.

It was late — not night, but the kind of twilight where the sky holds its breath between light and dark.

The silence between them had never felt awkward. Aarav never filled gaps with words; he let them breathe, allowed them to exist like unsaid feelings.

As they passed the chai tapri near the hostel gate, Aarav paused.

> “You want one?”

Naysa nodded. Not because she needed chai.

But because it meant a little more time.

They sat on the broken cement ledge near the compound wall. The kind where half the students carved initials and dates of failed crushes.

He asked, gently, “What’s your favorite song?”

She froze.

Not because it was a difficult question.

But because no one had ever asked it like it mattered.

After a second, she answered, voice barely above a whisper:

> “Tujhse Naraz Nahi Zindagi.”

Aarav turned his head slightly, surprised.

> “That’s… deep. Not something I expected from you.”

She looked down at her cup.

> “No one ever does. That’s the point.”

He stayed quiet. Let her speak.

> “When I was younger… I’d play that song on loop, imagining it was written for someone like me. Someone who… doesn’t know why life keeps giving but never gives that one thing they want.”

Aarav looked at her now, not like a boy who wanted answers, but like a person who respected her silence.

> “It’s not just a song,” she continued.

“It’s how I feel when people misunderstand me. When I try to be strong and fail. When I miss someone I should’ve forgotten.”

She didn’t say his name.

She didn’t need to.

And Aarav didn’t ask.

He just smiled — small, understanding.

> “You ever sang it out loud?” he asked.

She shook her head.

> “Only in my head. Like a safe space.”

Aarav took a sip and said,

> “If you ever do… don’t sing it for anyone. Sing it for yourself. For the girl who listened to it when no one else was listening to her.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup.

She didn’t cry.

Didn’t break.

But for the first time, she felt someone had handed her back a tiny piece of herself — one she had hidden for too long.

That night, she hummed the song softly while staring at her hostel ceiling.

Not for anyone.

Just for herself.

And maybe that was the beginning of love — not for someone else.

But for her.