PART 8: The Space We Chose to Keep
The city learned their rhythm.
It learned that some evenings, two women would arrive at the bus stop without urgency—standing a little apart, breathing in the same air, pretending they weren’t listening for each other’s footsteps.
After that night, nothing dramatic changed.
And somehow, everything did.
Aarushi noticed it first in the way Mira looked at her now—longer, steadier, as if measuring something invisible. Not possession. Not certainty. Just presence.
They walked together, but Mira didn’t offer coffee this time.
Instead, she asked, “Want to sit?”
They chose a low wall near the street—cars passing, conversations overlapping, life continuing as usual. The kind of place where nothing important was supposed to happen.
Aarushi liked that.
“I’ve been thinking,” Mira said, sketchbook resting on her knees but unopened. “About what you said. About feeling unnecessary.”
Aarushi swallowed. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Mira interrupted gently. “Because I don’t want to repeat old mistakes by staying quiet.”
Silence settled. Not heavy. Expectant.
“I learned how to be independent very young,” Mira continued. “It made me good at surviving alone. But bad at letting people know where they stand.”
Aarushi looked at her hands. “I’m good at disappearing,” she said. “At being convenient. Easy. Forgettable.”
Mira turned fully toward her then. “You’re not forgettable.”
The words were simple. No poetry. No drama.
That’s why they landed.
“I don’t need labels,” Mira said after a pause. “And I’m not ready for promises. But I don’t want you to feel like you’re standing outside something that matters to me.”
Aarushi finally met her eyes.
“What do you want, then?” she asked quietly.
Mira thought for a moment. “I want to choose you—slowly. And I want you to choose me without fear.”
Aarushi’s breath caught.
“That sounds… dangerous,” she said with a soft smile.
Mira smiled back. “Only if we pretend we’re not already here.”
A bus pulled up. People climbed on. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone argued on the phone.
Life didn’t pause for them.
But Aarushi felt something settle in her chest.
Not certainty.
Safety.
They stood when the bus arrived, instinctively closer now—not touching, but aware.
As they stepped inside, Mira’s hand brushed Aarushi’s wrist.
It wasn’t accidental.
Neither of them moved away.
That night, Aarushi wrote in her journal for the first time in months.
I am not asking to be held,
only not to be unseen.
Across the city, Mira finally opened her sketchbook.
She didn’t draw faces this time.
She drew two figures sitting side by side—space between them, but no fading lines.
She smiled to herself.
Some connections didn’t rush.
They stayed.
And that was enough—for now.
Not Yet, But Almost
We never touched,
but something learned our shapes.
Your silence leaned into mine,
and I understood—
some feelings don’t ask for permission,
they wait.
I was afraid of being replaceable,
you were afraid of repeating history.
So we stood between fear and want,
pretending balance was easy.
You never promised me forever.
You only stayed.
And somehow,
that felt heavier than vows.
We chose pauses over pressure,
breathing over rushing,
honesty over illusion.
If love is loud,
this wasn’t it.
This was softer—
a hand hovering,
a look that lingered,
a future not yet named.
Not yet.
But almost.
--------------
Thank you for staying, even after the silence.
This story comes after a long pause—shaped by time, distance, and unspoken feelings. Writing it again felt like returning to a place I never truly left. Every word carries fragments of quiet emotions and unfinished thoughts. If this part touched you, then the story is still alive somewhere between the lines. Some stories don’t rush toward endings; they wait, breathe, and unfold slowly. This is not a goodbye—only a pause. More remains unsaid, and perhaps, more will find its way to you soon.
