Indore was not what Tushar had expected.
It was louder, flatter, and smelled constantly of frying oil and damp earth. The roads were wide but cracked, and the traffic lights felt like vague suggestions rather than commands. Their new apartment complex stood on the edge of the city — a pale yellow structure with rusting iron gates and neighbors who didn't smile unless they had to.
The first few days passed in a haze. Unpacking, arranging furniture, meeting neighbors, and the strange dance of trying to make this place feel like home. But no matter how neatly his bookshelf was arranged or how tightly the bedsheets were tucked, something felt unstitched.
It wasn't just about geography. It was about absence.
He hadn't heard from Amrita since the train left the station. That was expected. They had agreed not to text or call unless it was urgent. The notebook would be their sole thread. A golden one — quiet, sacred, written.
Tushar had filled the first few pages with everything. About the train ride. The chai vendor who dropped a biscuit into his tea and called it "bonus flavor." His new room — how the fan clicked when it spun, like it was whispering secrets in Morse code. The loneliness of unpacking without someone cracking jokes beside him. How he walked into his new school orientation and scanned the crowd for someone with kohl-lined eyes, even though he knew she wouldn't be there.
When the letter was finished, he wrapped the notebook in brown paper, taped it carefully, and wrote her address in block letters. He walked nearly two kilometers to the nearest post office, clutching the parcel like it was made of glass.
The man behind the counter barely glanced up as he weighed the package and scribbled something onto the receipt.
"Regular or speed post?"
"Speed," Tushar said quickly. "Please."
It was funny, he thought as he handed over the cash — how much urgency one could feel for a notebook that wasn't even supposed to arrive tomorrow. But it wasn't the arrival that mattered. It was the act. The trust. The thread.
---
Days passed.
School began. The new campus was clean, efficient, and impersonal. Everyone spoke fluent English and dressed like they had influencers for siblings. Tushar floated through the corridors, invisible. He answered questions when called upon, nodded politely when spoken to, and ate his lunch mostly alone.
But every day, after school, he'd rush back to the apartment and check the mail slot near the lift. Nothing.
And then, a week later, it was there — a small brown package, the edges slightly crumpled, but unmistakable.
He tore it open before he even reached the apartment door.
Her handwriting covered the first page.
Dear Tushar,
So, Indore, huh? It sounds... real. Like something that exists in black and white, not color. I can almost see you, sitting by the window in a strange room, trying to pretend like you're okay. I'm trying too. I even caught myself reserving your old seat in class the other day before remembering you weren't coming back.
School's not the same. I mean, it never is without your best person. The jokes aren't funny, the silences are longer, and the lunch feels half-eaten, no matter how much I pack. But guess what? I finally joined the drama club. Can you believe that? I stood on stage and actually said words in front of people. I think I blacked out mid-monologue. But I survived.
Also — I started looking at trains differently. Every time one passes by the old railway line behind school, I wonder where you are. If you're watching a train too.
There were doodles in the margins again — a train puffing out hearts instead of smoke, two stick figures holding a golden thread between them, stretching across cities.
Tushar read her words over and over. There was something healing about her way of saying the things he couldn't. Of turning silence into softness. Of not pretending everything was okay, but still believing it could be.
He flipped to the next blank page and began to write back.
---
Dear Amrita,
The fan in my room still makes that clicking sound. I've started counting the clicks to fall asleep. It takes 247 on most nights. Strange how loneliness has a number here.
I tried the canteen food at school. It's edible, but the samosas lack courage. They just lie there, all potato and no spice, like they've given up.
I wish I could've seen you on stage. You've always had a flair, even when pretending not to. Remember that poetry recitation in Class 7? You forgot your lines and just made up a poem about a goldfish who wanted to be a mermaid. The whole class laughed for ten minutes straight. You thought you embarrassed yourself, but I still think about that goldfish sometimes. Brave little guy.
I haven't made friends here yet. It's not that people aren't nice — they just don't feel like... you know. Ours.
He paused for a second, then added one last line.
I miss the version of me who existed when you were around. He smiled more.
---
He closed the notebook gently and wrapped it again, this time adding a small sketch to the outer flap — a kite tied to a thread, drifting between clouds. He walked it back to the post office and sent it on its way.
And thus began the rhythm.
Write. Send. Wait. Receive.
A thread, weaving itself through the spaces of their days. No likes, no blue ticks. Just ink, delay, and a kind of patience that made it precious.
---
Moral:
When friendship is built on honesty and care, even silence becomes a language. Some bonds don't need daily words — just the faith that the next page will always come.