Aarav began to notice how much space Ira occupied in the quiet parts of his day.
Not in an intrusive way—she didn't text, didn't check in, didn't ask for updates—but in the way a song lingered after it ended, shaping the silence around it. When he stood in line at the campus canteen, he found himself listening more closely to voices around him, noticing how hurried they sounded. When he walked back to his PG in the evening, the city felt louder than it used to, almost impatient.
Night became relief.
Midnight became permission.
By the second week, Aarav stopped pretending he wasn't waiting. He didn't check the app obsessively, didn't refresh the screen, but his body knew. At 11:50, his thoughts slowed. At 11:58, he put his earphones in. At 12:00, the world sharpened.
Sometimes Ira sent the first message. Sometimes he did. It no longer mattered who reached out first; the connection felt assumed, like gravity.
One night, she didn't send a voice note right away.
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
Aarav told himself not to read into it. He scrolled through his phone, opened Instagram, closed it again. The noise of other people's lives felt jarring now, like walking into bright light after being in the dark too long.
At 12:31, his phone buzzed.
Voice note — 1:04 seconds
"Sorry.
I had to wait until everyone was asleep.
Some nights are harder than others."
Her voice sounded the same—steady, careful—but something underneath it felt strained, like she was holding herself very still.
"Do you want to talk?" Aarav asked. "Or should we skip tonight?"
There was a pause.
"No," she said softly.
"Talking helps."
So they talked.
About nothing important at first. About how the moon looked different depending on where you stood. About the strange intimacy of knowing someone's voice better than their face. Aarav found himself asking questions he'd never asked anyone else.
"Do you ever feel lonely even when you're not alone?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied immediately. "Especially then."
He didn't ask her to explain. He didn't need to. The certainty in her answer said enough.
As the nights passed, Aarav began telling Ira things he hadn't articulated even to himself. How he felt invisible in group conversations. How he'd started measuring his worth in productivity and always came up short. How writing felt like standing at the edge of something he wanted badly but didn't trust himself to claim.
"You don't sound like someone who doesn't deserve it," Ira said once.
"That's not the same as being good enough," he replied.
She didn't argue.
"Maybe," she said carefully,
"being good enough isn't the point."
The words unsettled him more than any reassurance could have.
The inconsistencies became more frequent after that.
Small things at first. Almost unnoticeable.
Ira didn't recognize apps Aarav mentioned casually. She didn't understand references that felt universal to him. She talked about school routines that sounded slightly out of place—longer hours, stricter rules, teachers who still collected notebooks physically.
"You don't submit assignments online?" Aarav asked one night.
"No," she said. "Why would we?"
He laughed it off, but the question echoed later.
Another time, he mentioned ordering food late at night.
"Through Swiggy," he added without thinking.
There was silence.
"What's Swiggy?" Ira asked.
Aarav frowned.
"You're kidding."
"No," she said. "Should I know it?"
"Yeah," he said slowly. "It's… everywhere."
"Oh," she replied. "Maybe it just hasn't reached here yet."
The explanation felt thin, but he accepted it anyway. Delhi was huge. Not everyone lived the same version of it.
Still, something about the way she spoke made it sound less like ignorance and more like distance—as if her world was slightly out of sync with his.
He didn't bring it up again.
Some part of him didn't want answers that might disturb the fragile rhythm they'd built.
One night, after a particularly long silence between messages, Aarav asked, "Why only nights?"
Ira didn't reply immediately.
When she did, her voice was quieter than usual.
"Because daytime expects things from me," she said.
"At night, I can just exist."
Aarav lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling fan as it rattled on.
"I think I understand that," he said. "Too well."
There was a faint smile in her voice when she replied.
"That's why I like talking to you."
The admission settled heavily in his chest.
It scared him how much it meant.
By the third week, Aarav realized something he didn't want to name.
He hadn't written much—but he'd started thinking in sentences again. Not polished ones. Not ready ones. But real ones. Honest ones.
Sometimes, after their calls ended, he opened his notes app and typed fragments.
Some people only feel real in the dark.
Some voices make silence feel safe.
What if time listens better than people do?
He never sent them to Ira. He wasn't sure why. Maybe he didn't want to turn her into an audience. Maybe he was afraid she'd recognize herself in the words and feel exposed.
Or maybe he was afraid that naming what this was would make it fragile.
One night, as the city outside settled into its familiar hush, Ira asked a question that caught him off guard.
"Can I ask you something strange?"
"Go ahead," Aarav said.
"If we ever stop talking," she said slowly,
"do you think you'd remember my voice?"
The question felt heavier than it should have.
"Of course," he said. "Why wouldn't I?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then, softly:
"Promise me."
Aarav sat up.
"I promise," he said, without hesitation.
There was relief in the breath she released.
"Okay."
They didn't talk much after that. The night felt full, like the conversation had already reached its natural end.
When the call ended, Aarav remained awake for a long time, staring into the dark.
He didn't know why that promise felt like something more than words.
But he knew—quietly, instinctively—that it mattered.