Next morning, it was Sanvi and Mahek's college farewell party.
Sanvi adjusted the tiny silver nose stud in front of the mirror, eyeing her reflection without much interest. "So today's the big day, huh?" she mumbled, sarcasm laced thick in her tone.
Mahek stood beside her, curling her hair while scrolling through her phone. "The big disaster, you mean. You know how our college handles events. It'll be a stage with torn banners and stale samosas."
Sanvi chuckled, slipping her feet into white sneakers. "We deserve better. This is our farewell. Four years, and all we get is a plastic flower garland and a lecture from the principal. No thanks."
"So what are we doing instead?" Mahek asked, raising an eyebrow, curling iron paused mid-air.
"Movie? Lunch? Shopping? Law Garden? Let’s make memories, not regrets," Sanvi offered.
"Best. Plan. Ever."
By noon, they had escaped the chaos of their college auditorium and entered the world of neon signs and popcorn smells. The movie was lighthearted and hilarious, the kind of rom-com that didn’t take itself too seriously. Sanvi laughed so hard during one scene that her drink nearly spilled over Mahek’s lap.
They took silly mirror selfies in the mall, tried sunglasses they couldn’t afford, and clicked aesthetic snaps under fairy lights in a bookstore. Their smiles were genuine, their hearts light.
Later, as they strolled through Law Garden’s bustling stalls, trying jhumkas and bargaining for oxidized rings, Sanvi paused to upload a carousel of their best pictures on Instagram. "Let the world know we skipped farewell in style," she smirked.
Raghav was seated in his backbench spot in class, half-listening to a lecture on constitutional law. His phone vibrated. Notification: Mahek posted a new story.
He tapped.
It was a video—Sanvi and Mahek laughing while posing with kulfis, shopping bags swinging from their arms. His lips curled into a grin. Without thinking too much, he texted:
Raghav: You girls ditched farewell and went shopping?
Mahek: Yep. Our version is better.
Raghav: Mind if I crash your party?
Mahek turned to Sanvi. "Raghav wants to come. You okay with that?"
Sanvi blinked, hiding the flicker of something behind her lashes. "Sure, why not?"
She didn’t say it out loud, but part of her—some ridiculous, traitorous part—hoped that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t come alone.
As they wandered past a stall selling embroidered bags, Sanvi’s eyes flicked up every now and then, scanning the street. A tall guy in a white shirt made her heart jump, only to deflate when he turned and it wasn’t him.
Mahek noticed. "Are you expecting someone else?"
Sanvi shrugged too quickly. "No. Just checking."
Within fifteen minutes, Raghav arrived. His usual charm on full display, he greeted them with a loud, dramatic bow. "Missed me?"
Sanvi smiled politely, but her excitement dimmed. No Vedarth. Her hope had been foolish.
Raghav, observant as ever, caught on. After chatting for a few minutes, he leaned toward her and said gently, "Bhai hospital mein busy hai. Emergency case tha. Aane ka mann tha uska, but duty first."
(His brother is busy at the hospital. There was an emergency. He wanted to come, but duty comes first.)
Sanvi nodded, lips curving in a weak smile. "Of course. He’s a doctor."
She excused herself under the pretense of wanting to look at some scarves. Then pulled Mahek aside near a wooden bench.
"You two enjoy," Sanvi said, trying to sound casual. "I don’t want to be a third wheel."
Mahek frowned. "Don’t be silly. You’re not—"
"Mahek, I know you're being kind, but it’s fine. You deserve to have a lovely evening." Sanvi replied.
Mahek hesitated. There was a flicker of concern in her eyes. But Sanvi knew that tone. That was not insistence—it was sympathy. The friendly kind that came with polite guilt.
So Sanvi did what she was best at—smiling and leaving quietly.
She took an auto home. The bumpy ride gave her too much time to think.
Why had she even expected Vedarth to come? Wasn’t it obvious that he had responsibilities far more important than a silly outing? She knew that. She respected that. And yet…
And yet.
At home, she kicked off her shoes and collapsed on the bed. Her phone buzzed with more Instagram notifications. Mahek had posted another story—Raghav buying her bangles. Mahek laughing, a gentle blush on her cheeks.
Sanvi watched, and a pang hit her chest.
It wasn’t jealousy.
It was loneliness.
And the realization that she had let her heart quietly, softly, begin to hope again.
Her mind whispered: You’re in the early attachment phase.
Her heart replied: No. Not again.
She buried her face in the pillow.
She didn’t want to feel this way. Not again. Not when every time she had dared to feel before, it had ended with her crying on the floor, being someone’s second choice, or worse—never even a choice at all.
Vedarth was kind. Thoughtful. He made her laugh. He looked at her like she mattered. But he was also a dream—tall, golden, and far too good to belong to her story.
She whispered to herself, voice cracking, "Main fir se sapne nahi dekhna chahti... ya agar dekhu bhi, toh unka tootna nahi jhel sakti."
(I don’t want to dream again… and even if I do, I can’t bear them breaking.)
She opened Instagram and watched her own stories. She looked happy in them. But only she knew the tiny ache beneath that smile.
She stared at Vedarth’s profile. No posts. Last seen? An hour ago.
She typed, then deleted:
“Hey, I thought you might come…”
Deleted.
Typed again:
“Busy at the hospital?”
Deleted again.
Finally, she opened her notes app and started typing:
"It’s always the hope that hurts. When someone makes space in your thoughts and doesn’t even know it. When you smile like an idiot at a message and then reread it 10 times. And when they don’t show up, it shouldn’t hurt. But it does."
She saved it, locked her phone, and curled into her blanket. A tear slipped out quietly.
Meanwhile at the cafe...
Raghav and Mahek sat under fairy lights, sipping cold coffee. She finally started to enjoy herself.
"I think Sanvi hoped bhai would come," Raghav said suddenly.
Mahek looked up. "She didn’t say anything."
Raghav nodded. "Exactly. That’s how I knew."
Mahek sighed. "She’s scared. She pretends she isn’t, but she is. Every time something feels good, she prepares for it to leave."
Raghav looked at the stars. "Then maybe it’s time someone stayed."
In the hospital....
Vedarth washed his hands at the sink, exhaustion evident on his face. A junior handed him a juice box.
He finally checked his phone again. No messages from Sanvi.
But her stories were still there. And her eyes in those pictures lingered in his mind longer than they should have.
He clicked on her profile.
Hovered over the message button.
Paused.
Typed: “You looked beautiful today. I wish I could've joined.”
Then he deleted.
Sanvi sat cross-legged on her bed, the fairy lights behind her casting soft glows across the walls. Her phone buzzed on the pillow beside her. She glanced at it—an Instagram notification. Raghav had posted a candid picture of him and Mahek, laughing near a kulfi stall at Law Garden. Sanvi smiled faintly. They looked happy. And Mahek deserved that happiness.
She put her phone on silent, hugged her knees, and stared at the window. The Ahmedabad skyline shimmered in the night haze. Her heart, however, felt unusually heavy.
"Why am I feeling this way?" she whispered to herself.
She wasn’t supposed to feel disappointed. Vedarth was doing his job—saving lives. He wasn’t obliged to join a random day out. She hadn’t even invited him. So why did his absence feel so loud?
A message popped up at the top of her screen.
Vedarth: “Raghav told me you both looked beautiful today. Hope you had fun.”
Her breath caught for a second. She stared at the message, unsure whether to smile or cry. She began typing… then deleted it. Typed again.
Sanvi: “Thanks… we did. I hope you had a good day too.”
She hit send, locking her screen immediately as if that would mute her emotions too.
A few seconds later, the reply came.
Vedarth: “It was okay. Just another day. Though… I kind of wish I’d skipped hospital and joined you all.”
Her heart did something strange—like a soft tumble. But Sanvi didn’t reply this time. She just closed her eyes and let the words settle deep inside her, both warming and warning her heart.
She whispered, “Don’t fall, Sanvi. Not again.”
But it was too late. Something had already begun. She typed slowly, carefully balancing sarcasm with truth:
Sanvi:
“You? Skipping the hospital? That sounds illegal.”
She added a laughing emoji. Then immediately deleted it.
Typed again.
Sanvi:
“You? Skipping the hospital? That doesn’t sound like the Dr. Vedarth Yaduvanshi I know.”
Sent.
Almost instantly, the typing dots appeared. Then paused. Then appeared again.
Vedarth:
“The one you know is allowed to wish sometimes, right?”
Sanvi bit her lip. Her heartbeat fluttered.
She typed, backspaced, typed again.
Sanvi:
“You’re allowed to wish. Just not sure if I’m the kind of wish people actually show up for.”
She stared at that sentence, finger hovering over the send button. Her thumb trembled.
Then she hit Delete.
All of it.
Instead, she took a breath and wrote:
Sanvi:
“You’re allowed to wish. I just didn’t think you’d even notice we were out.”
A beat passed.
Vedarth:
“I noticed. I always notice when it’s you.”
Sanvi’s breath caught.
That one line—simple, soft, but so full of weight—it pierced through the armor she had been wearing all evening.
Her fingers hovered again. She wanted to say so much. Ask him why he always showed up in words and glances, but never fully in presence. But she didn’t want to ruin it.
So instead, she typed one final reply:
Sanvi:
“Good night, Vedarth. Take care of yourself too sometimes.”
Vedarth:
“Only if you promise to do the same.”
Sanvi:
" :)"
And just like that, the screen dimmed. But her heart remained lit up in quiet ache and warmth.
*****************************
Sometimes, it's not the grand events or crowded rooms that shape our memories—but the moments we choose for ourselves, the quiet realizations, the subtle aches, and the hopes we dare not speak aloud.
Sanvi and Mahek didn’t attend their farewell. And maybe that’s okay.
Because in a world that often makes people like them feel out of place, they chose to write their own day, their own story. But even in self-made joy, expectations quietly bloom—and when they don’t meet the sun, they wilt.
This chapter was a glimpse into Sanvi’s fragile heart, the bittersweet edge of growing attachments, and how something as simple as a text can wrap itself around the soul like comfort—or confusion.
Love, after all, often starts in silence… and in what’s left unsaid.
Until next time —
With love,
-The Author ❤️✨
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