The afternoon sun slanted through the open window of Tushar's study, casting long shadows over the wooden floor. Outside, the world bustled with the rhythm of another day, but inside, the house was unusually quiet. Tushar sat hunched over his desk, a sheaf of papers spread before him—accounts, reports, and a draft proposal he was supposed to submit two days ago. The words refused to line up; they stared back at him, stubborn and scattered.
His phone vibrated softly beside the keyboard. He didn't look at it.
In the past, silence had comforted Tushar. It had meant space to think, to write, to breathe. But ever since Amrita had left for Mumbai again—this time for a longer residency with her theatre company—the silence had acquired a new weight. It clung to the walls like a fog that wouldn't lift.
He missed the sound of her humming when she watered the plants on the balcony. He missed the crinkle in her eyes when she argued passionately about the smallest of things—how the world had lost its patience, how conversations were now reduced to texts, how people rarely looked up from their screens. And he missed the way she made tea: too strong, barely sweet, with cardamom even when he asked her not to.
A sigh escaped him, and he rubbed his temples. There was a time he could focus through anything. Deadlines had been his fuel, not his nemesis. But now, something felt fractured inside, like a picture frame that had cracked, not quite broken but no longer whole.
The phone vibrated again. This time, he glanced at it. A message from Amrita.
> "Opening night went well. Crowd was small but engaged. Missed your face in the front row."
He smiled despite himself, then typed quickly:
> "Wish I could've been there. Sounds amazing. Let's talk tonight?"
She replied almost instantly:
> "After 10. Lots to share. Don't flake."
He chuckled and set the phone down, leaning back in his chair. The message sat with him, warm and grounding. Their friendship had always been the one true north in his life, even when everything else spun out of control. But lately, that compass had begun to waver. They hadn't fought, not exactly, but something had shifted. More silences. More texts that went unanswered. More days between calls.
He hadn't told her, but last week, he had almost taken a job abroad—an academic posting in Berlin. It was the kind of offer he would've leapt at a few years ago: prestigious, intellectually stimulating, clean break from the past. But he hadn't applied. The thought of being in another country, with oceans between them, had filled him with an inexplicable dread.
Just then, the doorbell rang.
He wasn't expecting anyone. Curious, he padded down the hallway and opened the door.
Standing there, looking equally surprised to see him, was Ishaan—Amrita's ex-boyfriend.
For a second, neither of them spoke. Then Tushar found his voice. "Ishaan? This is… unexpected."
Ishaan, dressed in a navy jacket and faded jeans, shifted awkwardly. "Yeah. I wasn't sure if I should come, but I figured... we should talk."
Tushar stepped aside, wordlessly, and let him in.
They sat opposite each other in the living room, a coffee table between them like a neutral territory. Ishaan looked older, thinner than Tushar remembered, but his presence still carried the self-assurance that had once irritated Tushar beyond measure.
"I ran into Amrita last month," Ishaan began. "We were both at a literary panel. It was civil, surprisingly. She even invited me to her play."
Tushar nodded, keeping his expression unreadable.
"She told me you two have been close for years. Best friends, she said." Ishaan's voice held no malice, but the word 'friends' hung in the air like a question.
Tushar met his gaze. "We are."
Ishaan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "She's not over you."
The words hit like a slap, even though they were whispered.
Tushar's throat went dry. "I think that's not your place to say."
"I know it's not. But I care about her, still. And I care enough to tell you that she's holding something back—something that keeps her from moving on. I don't know if it's guilt or confusion, or something deeper. But it's about you."
Tushar felt his heartbeat quicken, not out of anger but something more volatile—fear.
"Ishaan, you and I have never been close. And frankly, I don't owe you an explanation."
"I agree," Ishaan said, standing. "But maybe she deserves one—from you."
With that, he left.
Tushar stood frozen for a long time after the door clicked shut. He replayed Ishaan's words again and again. 'She's not over you.'
That night, when the clock struck ten, Tushar sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand. He hesitated before calling Amrita. Her name on the screen seemed suddenly immense.
When she picked up, her voice was soft, tired, but lit with the energy of performance. "Tushar! You made it."
"I did," he said, trying to steady his voice.
She launched into stories about the performance, the reactions, a moment where a prop fell mid-scene and she improvised like a pro. He listened, smiling. But beneath it all, the crack in the frame widened.
"Amrita," he said finally, interrupting her laughter. "Can I ask you something serious?"
There was a pause. "Okay."
"Have we ever… blurred the line?"
The silence that followed was deeper than any they had ever shared. Finally, she said, "You mean between us?"
He nodded, then realized she couldn't see it. "Yeah."
"I think," she began slowly, "we've always danced on the edge of something bigger. But we never jumped."
"Why?"
"Because we were afraid that if we did, we might lose the friendship. And we both needed it too much."
Tushar swallowed. "And now?"
"Now," she said quietly, "I don't know. Maybe the dance isn't enough anymore."
A hundred answers pressed against his lips. But in the end, he said only, "I don't want to lose you."
"You won't," she promised. "But maybe we need to stop pretending the frame isn't cracked."
Tushar looked out the window. The night stretched endlessly, full of questions.
---
Moral of the Chapter:
True friendship can withstand many trials, but honesty—especially with ourselves—is what keeps it whole. Sometimes, the heart must speak for the friendship to breathe fully.