To Be Continued...

SEVENTY THREE

After returning from India, I unpacked my bags, feeling both relieved and anxious to be home. My room was as I had left it—simple, quiet, yet somehow emptier after everything I had experienced. It wasn't just the wedding that left me drained; it was the nagging worry I carried about Nicolas, a weight I couldn't shed no matter how hard I tried.

The first thing I did after settling in was share all the pictures I'd taken at the wedding. I sent him pictures of the colorful saris I tried on, the wedding decorations, and the food that looked as vibrant as the festivities themselves. I wanted to show him everything, as if, somehow, I could bring him into those moments with me. I wasn't expecting much, maybe a short response, like the ones I'd grown used to recently.

But then his reply came.

"You look beautiful, Harini."

I stared at those words longer than I should have, a warmth spreading through me. It had been so long since I'd heard anything like that from him. For a moment, everything felt right again—like the Nicolas I knew was coming back to me. I smiled at my phone, feeling a flutter of hope.

Yet, just as quickly as that happiness came, it was clouded by a message from Kritika, a classmate of ours.

"Hey, Harini, have you heard from Nicolas? He hasn't been replying to my messages, and I'm worried. Is everything okay?"

My heart sank as I read her words. Kritika's concern mirrored my own, and it reminded me that while I was here feeling some semblance of relief, others might still be waiting for the Nicolas they knew. Was he shutting everyone out, or was it just me that he had reconnected with?

I typed back a vague response, "Yeah, I've talked to him a little. He's going through some stuff, but I think he'll be okay."

It felt like a lie—maybe he wasn't okay. But what could I say? I didn't even have all the answers myself.

That night, after pacing my room and re-reading our brief conversation, I decided to try a different approach. I opened Discord, the platform we used to talk for hours back when everything felt simpler. To my surprise, he was online.

For a moment, I hesitated. Should I text him? Would he respond? Before I could overthink it any further, I sent a quick message.

"Hey, you're online! Want to chat?"

A few minutes passed, and then the little typing icon appeared. Relief washed over me.

"Yeah, sure."

We moved to a voice call, and hearing his voice after so long was like a balm to my anxious heart. The conversation started slowly, a bit awkward at first. We talked about my trip to India, the wedding, and the food. He seemed genuinely interested, and for the first time in weeks, we fell into a comfortable rhythm, like nothing had changed.

But underneath it all, I could hear the tension in his voice, the heaviness he tried to hide. And eventually, it all came spilling out.

"I'm sorry, Harini," he said softly. "I didn't mean to push you away. I just didn't want to drag you into all of this."

His words were heavy with guilt, and I could feel the sadness in his tone. My heart ached for him.

"Nicolas, you don't have to apologize," I said gently. "I want to be here for you. Whatever you're going through, you don't have to do it alone."

There was a long pause, and I could hear him sigh on the other end. "It's just... it's been hard. I don't want you to worry about me. I've been trying to keep it together, but I didn't want to pull you down with me."

I closed my eyes, letting his words sink in. He was hurting, and I understood now that his silence wasn't because he didn't care—it was because he cared too much.

"I've been worried this whole time," I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. "I don't care if it's messy or hard. I just want to be there for you, like you've always been there for me."

For a long time, we just sat there in silence, listening to the hum of the call, neither of us saying anything. But in that silence, there was an understanding—something unspoken but deeply felt.

He broke the quiet first. "I'll try, Harini. I'll try to let you in more. I'm just... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel like this."

I smiled softly, even though he couldn't see it. "It's okay. We'll figure it out."

The conversation continued for hours, slowly peeling back the layers of the walls he'd built around himself. He shared bits and pieces of what had been weighing on him—the fear, the guilt, the feeling of being stuck in a spiral he couldn't escape from. And I listened, letting him talk, letting him pour out everything he had been holding inside for so long.

By the end of the night, I felt a strange sense of peace. We weren't fixed, but we were closer. And for now, that was enough.

As I lay in bed afterward, staring at the ceiling, I thought about everything we had talked about. I still had no idea what the future held for us, or for him. But I was determined to keep trying. I'd dedicate *ToBeContinued* to him, not just because I wanted to give him something special, but because, in a way, it was the story of us—unfinished, uncertain, but still full of hope.

For the first time in weeks, I felt like maybe, just maybe, we could find our way back to each other.