The Classy Thirteen

Janiye

Sarthak’s POV

Long distance relationships were never my thing.

Not because I didn’t believe in love — I did. But I’d always believed that love needed proximity. Shared silences. Touch. The ability to read a person’s breathing when words failed.

The comfort of knowing you could reach out and actually reach them. And yet, here I was. In Strasbourg.
Under a moonlit sky so soft it felt illegal. And my girlfriend was in Barcelona. If someone had told me a month ago that I’d willingly choose distance, time zones, and video calls over convenience — I would’ve laughed.

I would’ve said I’m not built for it. That I’m a physical presence kind of person. But they hadn’t met Anaya.
And that changed everything. It had been days since I’d last seen her — since the chaos of the annual event, since the rushed goodbye at the airport where I’d held her like the world was ending and watched her walk away like she was taking part of me with her.

I hadn’t recovered yet.

Not really.

Every part of Strasbourg reminded me that she wasn’t here — the cafés she’d like, the cold air she’d complain about, the narrow streets she’d insist on walking just a little slower through. Even my room felt different. Too quiet. Too still.

Tonight, though, the city felt… romantic in a way that demanded action. The kind of romance that doesn’t ask permission — it just settles in the bones.

The moon hung low outside my window, pale and luminous, casting silver over the street below. The breeze slipped in through the slightly open glass, cool and steady, carrying with it the faint sounds of the city settling for the night.

Nights had a softness here. Not loud. Not rushed.
Just… waiting.

And suddenly, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

I didn’t overthink it.

I lit the candles first — slow, deliberate movements, one flame at a time. Their glow filled the room gently, chasing shadows into corners. I laid fresh flowers on the table — not extravagant, just enough to say I thought of you. Pasta followed, steam curling upward like a promise. Wine poured carefully, the soft clink of glass echoing louder than it should’ve.

I turned off the lights.

The room transformed. Candlelight. Moonlight. Quiet devotion. I checked my phone once. Twice. Heart racing in anticipation. Then I video-called her. She answered almost immediately.

“Sarthak—” she began, and then froze.

I smiled.

“Surprise.”

Her mouth fell open. Her eyes widened. Her hands flew to her face. “OH MY GOD,” she breathed. “WHAT IS THIS?” I laughed softly. “Hi to you too.”

“That’s—” she leaned closer to her screen, trying to take everything in. “That’s so thoughtful. Are you kidding me? You did all this?”

“For you,” I said simply.

She shook her head slowly, smiling so wide it hurt me physically. “You’re unreal.”

“You’re biased.”

“I’m correct.”

She glanced behind me, eyes shining. “It’s so romantic… wow. I wish I was there.” That ache hit immediately.

Sharp. Sweet. Necessary.

“Me too,” I said, voice lower than intended.

She bit her lip, then looked back at the screen. “Wait. Don’t go anywhere.”