Stuck Voyage of 20's

The auto-rickshaw jolted over a pothole, snapping Avantika out of her trance. The city buzzed around her — honking vehicles, rushing pedestrians, hawkers calling out in monotone familiarity. Yet, inside her, it was quiet. Too quiet.

She reached the internship office five minutes early again. Not because she was excited, but because being home felt heavier these days. At least here, people spoke in tasks, in targets, in deadlines. There was no room for heartache in spreadsheets.

"Avantika, draft the marketing copy for the CSR pitch by noon," her mentor barked, coffee in one hand, urgency in the other.

She nodded, her fingers already moving over the keyboard before her mind caught up. Mechanically efficient — that's what she'd become.

---

Lunch break came and went. She skipped the group chatter in the cafeteria, choosing instead the quietest table by the window. Her phone screen lit up.

1 notification: "On This Day - Memories from 2 years ago"

She tapped.

A photo of her and Dhruv at a college fest. He was holding a can of Frooti, grinning like he'd just won a bet — probably had. Her smile in the picture looked easy. Effortless.

She stared at it. That version of them. Before complexities, before silences. Before words started getting stuck between their breaths.

She closed the app quickly and shoved her phone aside.

---

That evening, Avantika walked back instead of taking a ride home. The streets were slowly melting into orange as the sun dipped behind the trees. Somewhere between a florist shop and a chai stall, she opened her Notes app and started typing.

> "Hey,

I know we didn't talk after that day. I've been meaning to…

Or maybe I just don't know how.

That silence? It wasn't anger. It was... exhaustion. From everything. From holding in too much, too long."

She paused. Deleted the paragraph.

Typed again.

> "I saw our photo today. We looked happy. Were we really, or did we just think we were?

I miss the ease.

But also... I don't know if we'd survive the truth of who we've become."

Again, delete.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. Why was this so hard? Why did it feel like she owed him a closure and yet couldn't bring herself to give it?

The wind picked up, carrying dry leaves across the pavement. She took a deep breath and shoved the phone into her bag.

---

Back home, Ma was already watching her serial. Avantika changed into her pajamas and joined without a word.

"Long day?" Ma asked, eyes still on the screen.

"Not really."

A beat of silence. The soap opera characters were screaming at each other about a betrayal. She almost laughed at the irony.

"Dhruv called?" Ma asked, softer this time.

Avantika shook her head. "No. He won't."

Ma didn't push. She just nodded, knowingly. As if heartbreak was an old friend she'd met in her youth and recognized in her daughter's silence.

---

Later that night, Avantika sat by her window, a cup of cold coffee on the ledge. The stars were unusually bright.

She thought about messaging him. Just one line.

"How are you?"

Simple. Safe. But her fingers didn't move.

She hated this limbo — not together, not broken. A floating ache.

And yet, a part of her was afraid. What if he replied with warmth? What if he didn't reply at all?

She looked up at the stars again. They blinked back, indifferent and distant.

---

Inside her notes app, a line remained:

> "Some stories don't end with goodbyes. They just dissolve into unfinished sentences."

She saved it this time. Not for him. For herself.

---