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

False Starts

Sahil leaned against the railing beside him, two paper cups in hand.
"Don't you get bored, man?"

Arvind didn't answer immediately. Startled at first, he then shrugged.
"Nah."

Sahil handed him a cup. "Here. Coffee. You're welcome."

They sat in silence for a bit.

"By the way," Sahil added casually, "drama club's meeting tomorrow. Kiara's gonna be there. You should come."

Arvind gave a tired blink. "I don't act."

"You don't do anything," Sahil teased. "Time to start."

Arvind sipped his coffee, still staring into the horizon. Then asked, without looking over:
"Why don't you give up?"

Sahil blinked. "Huh?"

"On me," Arvind said.

Sahil thought for a second. Then grinned.
"Giving up's not in my dictionary. Might be misspelled or something."

They laughed a little.
But the silence after that was heavier.

That night, Sahil lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Why don't I give up?

Arvind was distant. Robotic. Cold. Always seemed like he wasn't really there.
Why did it matter so much to get through to him?

He didn't have an answer.
So he went to sleep instead.

The next morning, Sahil woke to find a cup of coffee on his desk.
Arvind, already dressed, stood at the door.

He didn't smile.

"I'm just returning the favor," he said flatly, then walked out.

Later That Afternoon – Drama Club

The rehearsal room buzzed with nervous energy—costumes, dialogue sheets, last-minute panic.

Arvind didn't say anything.
He just entered, walked to the last row of chairs, and sat down—arms folded, face unreadable.

Sahil saw him.
So did Kiara.

They exchanged a quick look.

Arvind remained expressionless.
But for Sahil, that one gesture—the act of showing up—was everything.

He's not made of stone, Sahil thought. He just forgot how to move.

He didn't say a word. But in his head, he made a silent promise:
I'll get you back. Somehow.

After rehearsal, Kiara practically bounced toward Arvind.
"Hey!" she smiled, breathless.
And before he could say anything, she kissed him on the cheek.

He froze for a second. Then nodded, almost mechanically.

Still, he walked beside her as they headed to a nearby café. Quiet.
Present, but not fully there.

Arvind sat across from Kiara, stirring his coffee with slow, absent movements.
She was excitedly describing the chaos of rehearsal—missing props, a forgotten monologue, Sahil slipping on stage during warmups.

He gave her a small smile. Just enough.

The café was crowded, warm with chatter and sunlight. The soft clinking of cups, low indie music playing.
It smelled like cinnamon and cheap furniture polish.

The bell above the entrance jingled.

He didn't look up.
But something inside him stilled.
A shadow passed through him—familiar, but unplaceable.