In the bustling city of Mumbai, Vihaan Malhotra, a charismatic rockstar known for his soulful music and rebellious spirit, captivates audiences with his performances.
Meanwhile, in the serene landscapes of Jaipur, Dr. Arpita Virani, a compassionate...
I missed the way she'd always steal my fries, after insisting she wasn't hungry. The way she used to roll her eyes at my lyrics, then quote them back at me weeks later. I missed the quiet strength of her belief in me—something no audience could replicate.
I had everything I once dreamed of—world tours, platinum records, a name people screamed like prayer.
But dreams... dreams start to feel different when you have no one to share them with.
And Arpita—she had been the only person I ever wanted to share them with.
Now all I had were echoes.
And silence.
And the songs that kept her alive in the spaces in between.
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They still messaged occasionally—digital echoes of a connection that once burned bright. No longer filled with playful banter or mid-day confessions, their texts had become carefully worded check-ins. Short sentences. Safe punctuation.
Arpita: Hope the tour is going well. Take care. Vihaan: Thanks. You too.
They didn't ask about each other's days anymore. Didn't talk about the little victories—how her paper got accepted in The Lancet, or how his latest single went platinum within hours. They didn't share playlists, memes, or the kind of silence that used to feel like comfort. Instead, they lingered like shadows in each other's inboxes. Close enough to remember. Too far to reach.
The Berlin conference was the kind of event where the world felt impossibly big and intimately small all at once.
Physicians in tailored suits mingled with artists in velvet jackets. Champagne glasses clinked. Ideas collided. A gala glittered beneath chandeliers like falling stars.
Vihaan had been invited to perform at the charity event—his music a bridge between art and healing. And though his set electrified the room, his eyes kept drifting off stage, scanning faces he couldn't quite name.
Until... there she was.
In the quiet corridor outside the banquet hall, under soft golden lighting, stood Arpita. She was flipping through her presentation notes—poised, graceful, unaware that fate had orchestrated this meeting with careful hands.
When their eyes met, something shifted.
They both paused.
As if the universe had pressed a finger to time, asking it to wait. Just for a moment.
Vihaan: "Arpita..." Arpita: "Vihaan."
Just names. Just breathe.
The hallway wasn't big enough to hold what they once were. And yet, here they were—two people who had once known each other down to the marrow, now standing like guests in each other's presence.
Their words were wrapped in politeness.
"How have you been?" "You look well." "I heard your talk was brilliant." "I caught your performance. It was moving."
Everything was kind. Nothing was intimate.
No apologies. No confessions. Just the unspoken truth between them—that life had moved on, and so had they.
And after a few more sentences, the polite smile came. The nod. The soft "take care." And then... they walked down different hallways.
That Nightin her hotel room, Arpita stood before the mirror. Not out of vanity, but out of quiet astonishment.
He had been right there. In the same city. On the same night. And it hadn't undone her.
She didn't cry. Didn't reply every second.
Instead, she whispered: "We were once each other's world. Now, we're strangers with shared memories."
And it wasn't tragic.
Just... true.
She felt no bitterness, no longing to rewrite the past. Because the woman she saw in the mirror—the one with steady hands and sharp eyes—no longer needed Vihaan to feel whole.
She was whole all on her own.
Meanwhile, across Berlin,Vihaan stood on the balcony of his hotel suite, overlooking the glowing veins of Berlin's midnight streets. The wind lifted his curls as he leaned against the railing, a glass of untouched whiskey beside him.
He thought of Arpita.
The way she'd carried herself. Confident. Unshaken. As if time had been kind to her.
"She was my muse," he thought. "My anchor. But now... she's a chapter in my past."
There was no anger. Only a quiet ache—for the versions of themselves that had loved so wildly and hoped so fiercely.
He didn't regret seeing her.
But he did regret that they'd let it unravel so far that even love hadn't known how to hold on.
Two Days Later, the conference ended.
There was no reunion. No final conversation in a café corner. No second chance.
They passed through the same airport, hours apart. Arpita boarding a flight to New York, Vihaan leaving for Rome.
No promises.
No "maybe someday."
Just a quiet, shared understanding: They had loved. They had tried. And they had outgrown what once was.
As Arpita settled into her seat on the plane, she closed her eyes briefly and smiled—not because she had let go of Vihaan, but because she had found herself.
"Our love was a beautiful melody," she thought. "But it's time to compose new symphonies."
And somewhere in the sky, miles away, Vihaan sat by a window, scribbling lyrics on a napkin.
The city faded below him. But his thoughts remained with her.
"Our song has ended," he whispered to himself, "but the music of life continues."
And as the clouds cradled both flights, their hearts finally understood:
Some stories aren't meant to last forever. Some are meant to shape you, then let you go.
And if you're lucky, they leave behind a silence so complete, it sings.
