Parallel Lines: a story of memory, silence, and first love

Parallel Paths

His grandfather paused mid-chew. Then, suddenly, a wide smile softened the lines on his tired face.
"You got in? That's amazing!"
Without hesitation, he stood and wrapped his arms around Arvind.

Arvind stiffened — hugging still felt foreign — but slowly returned the gesture.

Up close, he saw it.
His grandfather had aged.
Twenty years older than just two years ago. Frailer. Thinner.
His grip wasn't as firm, but it still held love — and strength.

"Thank you," Arvind whispered. "For taking care of me."

His grandfather didn't say anything. Just smiled and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze before sitting back down.

That night, the house was too quiet.
Arvind sat on the edge of his bed, staring into stillness.

He pulled out an old duffel bag and began packing.
Folded. Stacked. Zipped.
No excitement. No playlist.
Just the creak of old furniture and the soft thud of clothes hitting the bag.

Soon, the room was a mess.
Clothes on the floor. Books in uneven stacks.
Old pens and paper scattered across the bed like memories.

While digging through the bottom of his closet, he found something wedged between a shoebox and a stack of files — a photo album. Dusty. Forgotten.

He sat down and opened it.

Page after page of childhood — birthdays, holidays, simpler days.

And then he saw it.

A photo of them all at the beach house.
His parents. Tiara and her parents. Him. Her. Laughing.
Sand stuck to their feet. The sky golden behind them.

He touched the photo gently.
Thumb hovering over his mother's smile.
His father's arm wrapped around him.
Tiara's hair tied back, her smile wild and wide — like she owned the ocean.

He stared for a long time.
Then quietly closed the album and placed it at the bottom of his suitcase.

Some things were too heavy to leave behind.

Later, Arvind lay in bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
Sleep never came.

His mind drifted between memory and silence —
Words he never said.
People he'd never see again.
The weight in his chest didn't rise or fall anymore.
It just... stayed.

He woke early. Too early.

The house stood still.
The usual hum of morning was absent.
His grandfather's door remained closed.

Arvind didn't knock.

Instead, he scribbled a short note on a torn page and left it on the dining table:

Didn't want to wake you. Thank you — for everything. I'll call.
– Arvind.

He stood in the hallway for a moment.
Just breathing.
Listening.
Hoping for a reason to stay.

There was none.

He picked up his bag and stepped out into the fading night.

The sky was a dull grey — the kind that made it hard to tell where night ended and morning began.

The platform was nearly empty.
A few kids played with paper cups near a corner tea stall, their laughter distant and thin.
A man snored across three benches, a newspaper draped like a blanket.

Arvind sat quietly, bag by his side, eyes lost in the tracks ahead.
No tears. No big goodbye.
Just a boy with a half-full bag and a full heartache.

When the train finally arrived, he boarded without a second thought.
Found his seat.
Sat by the window.

The world outside began to move.
Trees blurred. Poles flashed by. Cities turned to fields. Fields to dust.

He pulled out the photo album.
Flipped to the page.
The beach house.
His parents.
Tiara.
Her parents.
Laughter frozen in time.

He stared at it for a while.
His thumb traced the curve of his mother's face.

Then slowly, he closed it.

He leaned his head against the cold glass.
Eyes open. Still.

The train moved forward.

But Arvind?
He wasn't sure if he was.

 Act 2.6 – The Girl in Seat 12A

Cheers outside. Silence within.

"Tiara! Come on, your flight's in two hours!"

Her mom's voice rang through the house, but Tiara barely moved. She stood in her room, staring at the blue suitcase by the bed — zipped, tagged, and ready. Everything she needed for the next chapter was packed, except the one thing she couldn't fold and fit: the ache in her chest.

The house was loud — laughter, phone calls, distant relatives dropping in to say goodbye. Her dad had bought sweets. Neighbors had come to wish her well. Her friends spammed her phone with voice notes and selfies.

She smiled at all the right moments. She said all the right things. But it all felt like background noise.

As her Uber honked from the gate, she gave one last look around her room — posters curling at the edges, the familiar bookshelf, the slightly cracked mirror on the wardrobe. She walked over to her study desk and carefully picked up the Secret Flies. She didn't read it this time. She just hugged it once — tight — then slipped it into her carry-on.

Her parents walked her out. Her mom fussed over her passport. Her dad gave last-minute advice about roommates and laundry. She nodded. Listened. Smiled.

In the car, they talked about food, Bangalore weather, law school clothes — anything but feelings. She kept the window half open. The wind tangled her hair, and for a moment, she let it.

At the airport, everything moved fast — security checks, boarding passes, a million goodbyes pressed into a few minutes.

Her parents hugged her tightly, her mom whispering blessings into her ear, her dad awkwardly patting her back. She held on longer than she meant to, not because she wasn't ready — but because she already felt like she was leaving more behind than she could carry forward.

"Take care," her dad said, blinking too much.

"I will," she said softly.

She walked to the boarding gate, didn't look back. She couldn't. Her eyes were already burning.

Inside the plane, she found her seat by the window. As the engines roared and the ground pulled away, she finally allowed herself to cry — just a little. Just enough.

Her hand moved instinctively to her bag. She unzipped it and pulled out Secret Flies.

She opened it to a random page.

A joke Arvind had once scribbled.

She smiled — through tears — at a version of herself that once laughed freely.

Outside the window, the sky stretched wide and open.

Tiara leaned back into her seat, the notebook on her lap, her heart too full to speak.

The plane moved forward. And unlike Arvind, she didn't question if she was.

"The plane moved forward. And unlike Arvind, she didn't question if she was."

after a while

The cabin lights dimmed. Tiara leaned into the cool window, the clouds rolling beneath like waves in a silent ocean.

An older woman beside her glanced over.
"Where are you headed, young lady? Home?"

Tiara's fingers tightened around the Secret Flies notebook pressed against her chest. She looked out, her voice quiet but certain.

"I'm not sure," she said. "But maybe... that's where I'm going."