The Things I Can't Say

"You're not as unreadable as you think, you know."

I pause mid-bite, staring at Aarav like he's just spoken in some foreign language. "Excuse me?"

He smirks, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed like he's enjoying this way too much. "You act like no one can figure you out. Like you're this big mystery." He tilts his head. "But you're not."

I scoff, because-obviously-I am. No one ever sees through me. No one ever calls me out on the things I don't say. That's the whole point. That's how I've always worked.

But then there's Aarav.

Aarav, who notices things no one else does. Who catches the tiny shifts in my expression, the half-smiles I don't mean to let slip. Who doesn't ask me to say how I feel, but somehow understands it anyway.

He's not loud like Avani, not as openly expressive. But he's steady. A quiet kind of presence, one that makes me feel strangely safe-like I don't have to be on all the time. Like I don't have to fill every silence with a joke or a deflection.

And that's terrifying.

Because I think, for the first time, I actually want someone to know me.

Really know me.

And Aarav? He already does.