Location: Underground Safehouse – Storage Room
Present Day – 3:01 AM
Shabd was searching for medical reports in an old trunk of papers when he found it—folded neatly between Vashti's childhood sketchbook and a crumpled chemistry test.
An envelope.
No stamp.
No name on the front.
Just shaky, rushed handwriting:
"For Shabd. But maybe… not."
His fingers trembled.
The ink was slightly smudged—like it had been touched with tears.
He looked around. Alone.
And opened it.
---
The Letter – Written 3 Years Ago
Never sent. Never shown.
> Dear Shabd,
I hate you.
Because I like you.
And you never even looked back once.
You make it so hard to stay mad though. Because every time you walk by in that white coat, calm and godlike, I remember why I fell.
I know I'm young. I know I'm loud. I punch people before I talk. I throw things when I'm angry. But when I think of you…
I go quiet.
That scares me.
Because you're the only thing in this world that makes me want to become better.
Not just for me. But for us.
Do you even believe in "us"?
Or am I just a chapter in your perfect life?
I'll become a neurosurgeon. I'll stand beside you one day. And when I do…
If you still don't look at me the way I look at you—
Then I'll walk away.
With my head high.
Because at least I loved honestly.
–Vashti
(P.S. If I ever throw this letter at your head instead of giving it to you gently, just know it's because I'm scared of your answer.)
---
Present Moment
Shabd sat there for a long time.
Eyes glassy. Chest tight.
He folded the letter back gently, as if it were a living heartbeat. Then stood.
And walked toward Vashti's room.
---
Meanwhile: Vashti's Room
She sat curled on her bed, hoodie over her head, music playing softly. Loud enough to drown her thoughts.
Until—
A soft knock.
She didn't answer.
The door creaked open anyway.
Shabd stepped in.
Said nothing.
He held the letter out silently.
Her eyes widened. Heart stopped.
"You found it?" she whispered.
"I read it," he replied. "And I'm sorry… for not seeing you sooner."
She stood slowly. "What are you saying?"
He stepped closer.
"I'm saying… I wish you'd thrown it at my head."
She laughed once—wetly, shakily. "You would've deserved it."
"Probably still do," he said. "But now… I'd catch it."
Their eyes met.
And for the first time in years—no one ran away.
---