To Be Continued...

SEVENTY FOUR

The days that followed our long conversation on Discord were quieter than usual. I kept replaying his words in my mind, feeling the weight of his apology, his struggle, and the distance that still lingered between us despite everything. But something had shifted—he had let me in again, if only a little. That was enough for now.

I threw myself into writing. Every free moment I had, I spent working on it, pouring all my feelings into the pages. The story of Nicolas and Harini wasn't just a fictional tale anymore; it was my way of processing everything. Every chapter was a piece of us—the confusion, the longing, the hope, and the uncertainty.

The more I wrote, the more I felt like I was doing something that mattered. It gave me purpose, a distraction from the anxiety that seemed to hover over me constantly. I stopped composing music as much, though. Every time I sat down at the piano or picked up my guitar, the melodies that came out were dark, filled with the kind of sadness I didn't want to acknowledge. I'd write a few lines, and they'd turn into paragraphs where I wished to be dead, convinced that somehow, all of this—Nicolas's pain, my own misery—was my fault. That if I hadn't gotten so close to him, maybe he wouldn't have suffered this much.

My mother started noticing. She never said much, but I could feel her watching me, observing how I barely played music anymore, how I spent hours staring blankly at my laptop screen, lost in thought. She would try to pull me out of the house for errands or shopping, especially as October approached, but I could never focus.

Even during the wedding in India, when the rest of the family was buzzing with excitement, I was a world away. I went through the motions—tried on clothes, posed for pictures, smiled when I had to—but my mind was always on Nicolas. I sent him pictures of everything I tried on, hoping to get more than just a brief reply.

He would respond, but only faintly. A simple "Looks good" or "Nice" would pop up on my screen, and I'd feel a fleeting rush of joy, only to be disappointed again by the lack of connection. Still, I kept texting him, trying to bridge the gap between us, even if it felt like I was grasping at straws.

Then came the day we returned from India, and I was back in my room, alone with my thoughts. This time, though, when I sent him pictures from the trip, he replied differently.

"You look beautiful, Harini."

Those words felt different. More genuine, more like the Nicolas I had missed so much. For a moment, it was enough. I smiled to myself, holding onto that tiny piece of happiness. Maybe things were getting better.

But as always, the moment was fleeting.

Was he isolating himself again, or was there something else I didn't know about?

I could feel him slipping away again, and no matter how hard I tried to hold on, it wasn't enough.

Later that night, I opened Discord again, hoping to find him online like before. He was there, and this time, I didn't hesitate to reach out.

"Hey, are you okay?" I typed, feeling the familiar nerves creep in.

There was a long pause before his reply.

"I'm fine, Harini. Just tired."

I sighed, unsure of how to respond. Tired—he always said that, but it felt like more than just physical exhaustion. It was the weight of everything he was carrying, the things he wasn't telling me.

"I miss you," I typed quickly before I could overthink it.

This time, the reply came faster.

"I miss you too."

It was short, simple, but it meant the world to me. We talked for a while after that, about nothing in particular—just small, everyday things. He didn't open up much more, but I could sense that he was trying, and that was enough for now.

The conversation ended with him apologizing again, saying he didn't want to drag me into his mess. I told him what I always told him—that I wanted to be there, that he didn't have to go through it alone. But I could still feel the distance between us, even as we said goodnight.

As October came to an end, I threw myself even deeper into *ToBeContinued*, hoping to have it ready by his birthday. It became my way of coping, of dealing with the uncertainty and the worry that never really left me. I wrote about the version of us that I wished we could be—together, whole, and free from all the pain that seemed to surround us.

But as the days went by, I couldn't shake the feeling that maybe our story, like the one I was writing, would always be unfinished. I kept telling myself, as if repeating it would make it true. But deep down, I was starting to wonder if we would ever reach the next chapter.