"What you did today was unacceptable," I spat, barely letting the door close behind us.

"What did I do?" Kanika said, feigning innocence with all the sincerity of a cat caught mid-crime.

I gave her a withering look. "First, you tried to set me up with Ryan. And then, why did you bring up Shlok's music like that? He looked uncomfortable. That was so embarrassing and so? unnecessary."

Kanika shrugged, flipping her hair back like this was a minor inconvenience, not a social apocalypse. "You've got to live a little. What's the harm in having fun? Besides, it's time you start dating. Ryan seemed very interested. Shlok is cute too. You like his music - are you interested in him?"

I sighed, exasperated. "I'm not interested in either of them. You know I already have someone," I muttered, quieter.

Kanika's face twisted. "You have someone? You mean Abhi?" her tone accusatory "Don't tell me you're still hung up on him. How long is this stupid puppy crush going to last? It's not like you're even in love with the guy."

"It's comfortable," I said. "He's comfortable. I don't need to fall in love. Love is messy and tiring. With him, it's easy."

"Then why aren't you dating him?"

I blinked. I didn't have a good answer. I never did.

Kanika didn't wait. "Is it because he's stringing you along? Tossing you just enough crumbs to keep you hoping, while he flirts with everything that breathes?"

"He doesn't owe me anything," I said, though it sounded weak even to my ears. "We're not dating. He can flirt with whoever he wants."

Kanika scoffed. "Right. And you're just... what? His emotional convenience?"

I didn't answer. Because I didn't know. Because maybe.

"I can imagine my life with him, without the mess, without the obligation, without the commitment," I said finally.

She wouldn't understand. He's been in my life as long as I can remember. And by high school, I had this huge crush on him. It kind of died when he dated other people. Now it's just comfortable having him around. I don't need to be in love to be with him, right?

Kanika sighed heavily. I avoided her eyes. She folded her arms, her voice softer now. "Navya, listen to yourself. You're saying you don't want love because it's messy, but you're already living in the mess. You just refuse to call it that."

I looked away, suddenly fascinated by the cobweb in the corner of the wall.

"I don't want things to change," I whispered. "With Abhi, everything stays the same. We talk, we laugh, we know everything about each other. He doesn't expect me to open up more than I'm willing to. He doesn't? ask for anything real."

Kanika let out a quiet breath. "Except you, Navya. He has you. All the time, in bits and pieces. And you're okay being someone's safe option instead of being someone's choice?"

That stung. I hated how it stung.

Kanika placed a hand on my shoulder. "You deserve more than a placeholder, Navya. Even if you don't believe it yet."

She left me there with my own contradictions echoing louder than ever.

"?Even if you don't believe it yet."

Kanika's words lingered like the bitter aftertaste of burnt coffee. I didn't want to talk anymore. Not about Abhi. Not about love. Not about the ache that sat under my skin like a poorly hidden secret.

But some part of me - the part that still wanted to prove something - spoke up anyway.

"He's coming back tomorrow."

Kanika raised an eyebrow. "Abhi?"

I nodded. "From his work trip. He wants to meet as soon as he lands, says he missed me."

"Of course he did," she said under her breath, but I heard it.

I narrowed my eyes. "You promised you wouldn't judge."

"I'm not judging. I'm observing. Huge difference."

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. "Please don't start."

She leaned back, folding her arms with that very specific expression she reserved for when I was making questionable life decisions. "So what? You're going to meet him and what - fall back into that half-baked not-a-relationship again?"

"It's not half-baked," I muttered.

"Navya, it's not even in the oven. It's raw dough you keep poking, hoping it'll magically become a cake."

I laughed despite myself. "That's such a weird metaphor."

"It's accurate, though."

I sighed and stood up. "You're coming with me."

"Excuse me?"

"You're coming to the caf�. He said he'll meet me there around five. I need? support. Or a buffer. Or a witness, I don't know."

She groaned, dramatic and loud, but didn't say no. "Fine. But I'm not sugarcoating anything."

*****

The caf� was its usual 5 p.m. chaotic self - half office-goers grabbing caffeine before heading home, half hopeful students pretending to study but really scrolling through Instagram. I spotted an empty corner booth and grabbed it before anyone else could.

Kanika volunteered to fight the barista queue, already eyeing the pastry counter like it owed her money. I scanned the place absentmindedly, when I saw him.

Shlok.

Of course.

Because the universe was bored and loved irony.

He was sitting alone. By the window. A notebook open in front of him, coffee steaming beside him like a quiet companion.

I hesitated.

I could pretend I didn't see him. I could sit somewhere else. I could even walk out and feign a stomach bug.

But right then, he looked in my direction.

His gaze landed on me - calm, unreadable, and entirely nonchalant. Not a flicker of surprise. Just? awareness.

So I walked over.

"Hey," I said, unsure whether to smile or vanish.

"Hey," he replied, voice low, lazy, like he wasn't expecting conversation but didn't mind it either.

"Didn't know you came here."

"Didn't know I had to file an attendance," he said, glancing up with the ghost of a smirk.

Right. Smart mouth. I wanted to scoff, but I awkwardly nodded, eyeing toward the notebook. "Writing music?" Why does that sound stupid? Because it is stupid - replied my brain.

He tilted his head like he couldn't understand, looked back at his notebook.

"Music? Yeah," he said. "It's overrated, I know." He is quoting my line from yesterday.

I turned slightly pink. "I mean, it starts to become noise after a while, I prefer silence." Not helping.

He looked at me then - really looked. Like he was trying to find the gap between what I said and what I meant.

"Well, to enjoy music," he said softly, "you need to find the right kind of silence first?" He paused, then added, softer still - "?and someday, you'll find a voice you'll enjoy filling your silence with."

I stood there for a second longer than I should have.

Maybe it was the way he said it - not dramatic. Just? honest. Like he didn't care if I understood it now or later. He just said it and went back to his world.

I glanced at the notepad, fidgeting what to do.

"Anyway," I said, awkwardly stepping back, "I'll let you get back to? that." I pointed to his notebook.

He looked up briefly, pen paused mid-line. "You don't have to disappear just because I said something real."

I wasn't sure if it was a tease or a challenge. Maybe both.

"I'm just getting coffee," I said, lifting my hand vaguely toward the counter. "Not fleeing the country."

He smirked. "Pity. I was hoping for a dramatic exit."

I rolled my eyes and turned around just in time to see Kanika return, two iced coffees and a raspberry tart precariously balanced in her hands. Her eyes flicked to Shlok and then to me. And then she raised a brow.

Don't even start, I mouthed.

She grinned but said nothing, handing me my cup with a suspiciously smug smile.

As we walked back to our table, I kept my head down. But the weight of his words stayed with me, tangled somewhere between my ribs and my throat.

The right kind of silence.

Abhi arrived ten minutes later. Same easy charm, same disarming smile. He gave me a one-armed hug and greeted Kanika with a grin that made her visibly recoil.

"You look tired," he said to me, like it was some inside joke.

"I've been working."

"Still the editor-in-chief of avoiding fun?" he teased, and I laughed. Because I always laughed. It was easier than telling him that joke stopped being funny two years ago.

We talked, or rather, he talked - about his trip, the meetings, the amazing ramen he had in Tokyo. I chimed in here and there, aware of Kanika watching like a silent referee.

We were halfway through our second round of coffee when Abhi leaned back in his chair and gave me that half-smile I used to replay in my head in high school.

"You know," he said, "while I was in Tokyo, I ordered this plain steamed rice one night - nothing on it, no sauce, just... rice."

"Okay?" I raised an eyebrow.

He chuckled. "It reminded me of you."

Kanika's face snapped up so fast, I thought she might break something.

I blinked. "Rice reminded you of me?"

"Yeah," he said, still smiling like this was the most romantic thing anyone could say. "You're like plain rice - kind of boring, yeah, but... dependable. Comforting. Familiar. You grow on people."

Kanika made a strangled sound. I pretended not to hear it.

I should have rolled my eyes. I should've taken offense. But instead, I felt relieved. I think I understood what it meant. It wasn't sweet, no. It wasn't fireworks. It wasn't butterflies. It wasn't even that aching kind of yearning that poets ruined for the rest of us. It was just... ease. Familiarity. Like an old sweater that's lost its shape but still smells like home. Abhi didn't make me nervous. He didn't make me question myself. There were no highs or lows - just the flat, steady line of something that could work, if I squinted hard enough.

And maybe that's all I needed right now. Not someone to set my world on fire, but someone to keep me warm while I figured out whether I even wanted a world worth burning. I glanced instinctively toward the table where Shlok had been sitting. It was empty now.

That's when I decided something.

"Then let's date," I said. I was never this impulsive

Abhi blinked. "What?"

"We should date" I said, words surprising even me. "For two months. Let's see if we work. People survive on rice all their life. Maybe we could too."

Kanika looked like she was about to spontaneously combust.

Abhi hesitated for a beat, like the idea had never even occurred to him. Then he shrugged. "Okay. Let's try it."

That was it. No romantic gesture, no weighty pause. Just "okay."

I smiled, but something inside me clicked - not in a good way, but in that weird, reckless way when you decide you'd rather dive than keep treading water.

There was this feeling, you know when you're trying on a dress you always thought you'd love, and the color just looks off in real life.

Kanika didn't say anything. Not for a while. Just sipped her coffee like it was the only thing keeping her from flipping the entire table.

As we walked out, Kanika looped her arm through mine.

"You know this is dumb, right?" she said.

"I know."

"Then why?"

"It's not about love, okay?"

Still nothing. She waited.

"I'm just trying to fill the silence," I finally said, more to the night than to her.

Kanika turned her head, confused. "Silence?"

I smiled faintly, a little tired. "Even if it's with bagpipes."

Kanika blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

I smiled, a little helplessly. "Bagpipes? you know those noisy ones our college band used to play during every fest. They're loud, annoying - but they fill the air. They can fill the silence perfectly."

Kanika didn't say anything. She just slung her arm around my shoulder, dragging half her weight onto me.

"Even if it's bagpipes," she said quietly, half amused, half heartbroken.

Kanika broke the silence after a while. "You need therapy."

"Or noise-canceling headphones."

We both laughed. But only one of us meant it.