The days that followed were unusually quiet.
Tushar and Amrita didn't speak much—not because of tension, but because there seemed to be an unspoken agreement to let things settle. Like dust after a storm. Words had always formed the bedrock of their bond, but now, silence felt like the safest language. Not cold, just tentative. Protective.
Tushar found himself moving through his days in slow motion. He returned to his old routines—mornings with coffee and newspapers, afternoons writing half-heartedly at his desk, and evenings scrolling through old drafts that never felt quite right. The project he had once been so excited about—a memoir reflecting on personal relationships—now stared back at him from the computer screen like a mirror he wasn't ready to face.
He clicked it open. Typed a sentence.
"Some friendships are too complicated to define. So they linger, not asking to be named, only to be felt."
Then he deleted it.
---
Across the city, in a cramped green room at a small theatre in Bandra, Amrita removed her stage makeup with slow, careful motions. The crowd had been generous tonight—laughter in the right places, applause at the end, and even a few standing ovations. But none of it had reached the ache in her chest.
She missed him.
Not just the presence of Tushar, or the conversations they used to have over chai and tangled metaphors. She missed them. The way they used to laugh, unguarded. The long walks without a destination. The times he'd just know what she needed—an orange soda after rehearsal, or silence after a bad day.
Since that afternoon at her apartment, something had shifted. Not broken, but shifted. Like tectonic plates moving imperceptibly—making the ground underfoot unfamiliar.
She reached for her phone. Typed out a message.
> "You okay?"
She stared at it for a long time before deleting it. Then tried again.
> "Missing our walks."
Still too vulnerable. She erased it.
In the end, she didn't text anything at all.
---
The unsaid lingered like fog.
One week passed. Then another.
One evening, Tushar received an invitation by courier—a formal envelope bearing the logo of a literary magazine. Inside was a card printed on thick parchment:
> "You are cordially invited to the launch of 'Unveiled Voices,' a poetry anthology featuring emerging and established writers. Venue: Prithvi Theatre. Saturday, 6:30 PM."
In one corner of the card, hand-written in blue ink:
> "Amrita is performing an original piece. Don't make me text twice." – Nisha
He smiled. Nisha, Amrita's closest friend in the theatre circle, always had a knack for meddling. In this case, he was grateful. He needed a push.
---
On Saturday, he arrived at Prithvi a little after six. The courtyard was already buzzing with artists, writers, and patrons sipping coffee under fairy-lit trees. He spotted Nisha near the stage entrance and gave her a quick wave. She grinned and pointed toward the front row—reserved seating. He found his name on a folded paper.
As the lights dimmed and the event began, Tushar let himself be pulled into the rhythm of the evening. There were poems about loss, resilience, rain, and mangoes. Some made the crowd laugh. Others drew sighs. Then came the last performance.
"Next," the emcee announced, "we have a very special piece by Amrita Sen. Titled 'The Echo of Things Unspoken.'"
The applause rose even before she stepped on stage.
Tushar's heart thudded.
When she walked out, dressed in a deep indigo kurta and barefoot, he felt the breath catch in his throat. Her presence was magnetic—calm, but electric beneath the surface.
She began without preamble.
> "Some silences aren't empty.
They are full—of words we never said.
Of hands we didn't hold.
Of letters we never sent."
Her voice, low and steady, filled the room. But it wasn't just the words—it was the way she looked directly at the crowd, then past them, as if speaking to someone not in the room.
Or perhaps, to someone sitting in the front row.
> "He said we were friends.
I believed him.
Because believing anything else
would've meant risking the only thing
that ever felt safe."
There were murmurs in the crowd now—people shifting in their seats, leaning forward. Tushar didn't blink.
> "But what is friendship,
when your heart begins to ache
every time they laugh with someone else?
When you memorize the sound of their silence
because it's louder than anything they say?"
Her voice cracked on the last line. Just for a second. Enough for Tushar to feel his chest tighten.
> "We danced around the truth
like it was fire.
Beautiful, dangerous, necessary.
And in the end,
we chose the cold."
The silence that followed was absolute. No one moved. Not even Tushar.
Then, slowly, applause rose—tentative at first, then thunderous.
But Tushar couldn't clap. His hands were frozen in his lap, his eyes still fixed on her as she bowed and walked offstage.
---
After the event, he waited near the parking lot. The crowd thinned. Stars blinked into the evening sky. Finally, she appeared, clutching a canvas tote and looking utterly exhausted.
She saw him and stopped.
Neither of them spoke at first.
Then she exhaled. "You came."
"You asked."
There was a long pause. Then, softly: "Did you understand the poem?"
He nodded. "Every word."
She stepped closer. "Then you know, don't you? You always knew."
"Yes," he said. "But I didn't have the courage to name it."
A breeze passed between them, gentle and cool. She looked up at him, her expression unreadable. "And now?"
"I don't know where this takes us," he admitted. "But I don't want to go back to pretending. I don't want the cold anymore."
Amrita nodded, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Then don't. Let's start with something small."
"Like what?"
"Walk with me," she said. "No words. Just walk."
He smiled, and without another word, they began walking—side by side, the way they always had. But something had shifted again.
And this time, it was toward the light.
---
Moral of the Chapter:
Sometimes, what we leave unsaid becomes the heaviest burden we carry. But when we give voice to the truth, even in the simplest of ways, we begin to heal—one step at a time.