Stuck Voyage of 20's

It wasn't planned. It never is, when the heart has unfinished business.

Avantika was at her friend Anushka's art showcase — a quiet, low-key event tucked inside an old bookstore that smelled like dust and poetry. She had come out of courtesy, wearing a simple kurti and silver hoops, her hair loosely tied back. She didn't expect anything out of the evening.

And yet, the moment she turned the corner of the gallery space, her breath caught.

He was there.

Dhruv.

Leaning slightly against the back wall, arms crossed, eyes scanning a canvas absently. He hadn't seen her yet. The same brown hoodie. A little leaner, maybe. But still him.

Her heart stumbled over itself.

She could leave. She could turn and walk right out.

But her feet didn't move.

Maybe some stories don't wait for the perfect page. Maybe they pick their own.

---

Dhruv felt it — like a shift in gravity. He looked up.

And there she was.

Avantika.

His mouth parted slightly, as if forming a greeting that never made it out. She looked… familiar and foreign at once. Like a dream you almost forgot and then suddenly remembered, vividly.

Their eyes locked.

Neither of them smiled.

Not at first.

But they walked toward each other. Slowly. Like gravity had signed a quiet agreement.

---

"Hey," she said first.

"Hey," he echoed. A beat of silence passed. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Anushka invited me."

He nodded. "Me too. I—uh—helped her set up some of the frames earlier."

Their conversation felt like strangers wearing the memories of people who used to know each other.

Awkward. Careful.

Until she looked at him and softly said, "You look tired."

Dhruv let out a half-laugh. "You always say that."

"Because you always are."

That broke something between them. The tension. The holding back.

He motioned toward the little café corner at the back. "Can we... talk?"

She hesitated only a second. Then nodded.

---

They sat across from each other, two cups of black coffee between them. The air was thick with things unsaid.

"I almost messaged you last week," Dhruv said, staring into his cup.

"I almost did too," Avantika whispered.

"Why didn't you?"

She looked up. "Because I was afraid we'd say too much. Or not enough. And I wasn't sure which would hurt more."

He swallowed hard.

"I wrote you messages," he confessed. "Paragraphs. Never sent them."

"Same."

They looked at each other again — this time longer. Softer.

"I missed you," she said finally.

Dhruv closed his eyes briefly. "God, I missed you too."

---

The words lingered between them like fragile glass. But now that the first one had broken, the rest began tumbling out.

"I thought I was doing the right thing," Dhruv said. "Giving you space. Not forcing conversations."

"I thought I was doing the right thing by not needing you to fix it," Avantika replied. "I didn't want you to carry me through my own chaos."

"You never needed fixing, Avantika."

"But you never said that."

He looked down, guilty. "I didn't know how to say it. I was scared. Of saying the wrong thing. Of breaking something more."

She blinked fast. "We were both scared."

He nodded. "But I'm tired of being scared."

---

A pause.

Then, gently, Avantika said, "Do you still think of that night? The last one?"

"All the time," he said. "I replay it. What I should've said. What I should've done differently."

She leaned forward slightly. "What would you say now, if we were back in that moment?"

He took a deep breath. Looked her in the eyes.

"I would tell you that I didn't want to let go. That I was shutting down because I didn't know how to fight without hurting you. And that walking away felt safer than risking losing you completely."

Her eyes glistened.

"And I would've told you," she replied, "that even when I was silent, I was still hoping you'd pull me back."

A long silence passed.

But this time, it didn't ache. It breathed.

---

"So what now?" she asked quietly.

Dhruv reached across the table, fingers brushing against hers — tentative, not assuming.

"We don't have to have answers tonight," he said. "But can we at least stop pretending we don't feel this?"

She smiled.

A real one this time.

"I'm done pretending."

They sat like that for a while — hands loosely clasped, hearts beating in the same hesitant rhythm.

Not everything was healed. Not everything was said.

But something had shifted.

And that was enough, for now.

---

Outside, the sky had begun to drizzle — a soft rain, the kind that doesn't chase you indoors but invites you to walk beneath it.

As they stepped out, side by side, neither of them let go.

---