The flight to Hyderabad was a little over two hours.
Akka kept arguing with Amma about visiting her friends in the city, while every other aunty around seemed deep in their own conversations. Even Amma found herself chatting with a co-passenger.
But my thoughts weren’t in the flight at all — they were with Laksh.
Flashback —
“That’s all? You’re leaving me without a word?” I had asked, the words barely above a whisper.
Laksh didn’t look at me. Or maybe he didn’t dare to.
That was the last time I saw him.
---
Present — Arrival
Our flight landed right on time. As we stepped out, the familiar warmth of Hyderabad wrapped around me like a memory I wasn’t ready to face.
Waiting near the arrivals gate were Chinna Attha and Mamayya(Tarav’s parents) — and beside them, of course, Tarav, looking effortlessly charming in his casual tee and messy hair. Aarav, his little brother, waved excitedly, now taller and leaner than I remembered.
Tarav was the same — mischievous smile, teasing eyes, the kind of presence that pulled attention without trying.
“Hey sweetheart, missed you,” he said, his voice dripping with mock flirtation.
I blushed, caught off guard. “Hey, Tarav,” I murmured, smiling despite myself.
Akka jumped in, mock-pouting. “I guess I’m invisible to everyone now.”
We all laughed, and Tarav turned toward her with a grin. “Maybe the beauty of your sister is blinding us all, Akka.”
I rolled my eyes, pretending annoyance — but my heart gave a tiny, traitorous skip.
---
The Drive Home
The car ride was filled with chatter and laughter. Aarav talked about school, Amma caught up with Attha, and in between it all, I found Tarav’s gaze flickering toward me through the rear-view mirror.
At one turn, sunlight caught my wrist — and the bracelet gleamed.
His eyes lingered on it for a second longer than they should have.
But he didn’t say a word.
Neither did I.
Because some silences speak more than conversations ever could.
---
I always knew what Tarav felt for me.
It wasn’t in his words — it was in the pauses between them.
In the way his eyes lingered a little too long,
in the laughter that lost its edge whenever I looked back.
He never confessed.
And I never asked him to.
Some things are better left unspoken —
like rain that threatens but never falls,
like songs that never find their ending.
Maybe I was afraid.
Afraid that naming it would break something fragile —
the comfort, the teasing, the quiet warmth we built around what we didn’t say.
So I chose silence.
Because silence doesn’t demand.
It simply stays —
soft, steady, and unbearably safe.
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