No part of this content should be published without Author's permission.

AAVYA RAJAWAT

Two months. It’s been two whole months since I last had a real conversation with Vihaan. Sixty days of silence. Of dodging his eyes, avoiding his touch, pretending like I don’t notice the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking.

He’s trying—God, he’s trying harder than anyone ever has for me. Every single night, without fail, he stands outside my bedroom door. Sometimes for a few minutes. Sometimes for hours. Just waiting. Hoping. He calls out my name softly—“Aavya.” Once. Twice. Sometimes with a hesitant knock. And every time, I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. Even if I’m wide awake. Even if I’m curled up in bed, listening to the sound of his footsteps fading down the hallway.

At dinner, it’s the same. His rule—we eat together. No matter what. We sit at opposite ends of a long, polished table that feels colder than ever. He tries to talk, to bridge the silence with something—“The food’s good tonight,” or “Did you try the dal? It’s your favorite, right?”