The Silence Outside Her Door
The car finally stopped outside Anwesha’s house.
Rain had almost ended, leaving only small drops sliding across the glass.
Neither of them moved immediately.
The engine remained on.
The soft yellow streetlight outside entered through the window, making the silence heavier than before.
Anwesha adjusted her dupatta slowly, though she had no reason to.
Kabir kept both hands on the steering wheel, eyes forward.
Then—
Kabir: You reached safely.
Anwesha: Obviously… because you drove.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Small. Brief.
Then silence again.
Anwesha looked outside.
Her gate was right there.
Just a few steps away.
Still—
for some reason—
opening the door suddenly felt too final.
Her fingers touched the handle but stopped.
Kabir noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Kabir: You can go.
His tone was calm.
Too calm.
She looked at him.
Anwesha: That sounds like you want me to leave quickly.
He turned slightly toward her.
Kabir: If I wanted that, I would not still be sitting here.
That answer immediately made her heartbeat shift.
She looked away first.
Because his eyes tonight had become difficult to face.
After a pause—
Anwesha: Your hand still needs proper medicine.
Kabir: I’ll manage.
Anwesha: You always say that.
Kabir: Because I usually do.
That slight arrogance again.
Yet tonight it sounded softer.
She looked at the bandage she had tied.
The tissue had loosened slightly.
Without thinking, she leaned a little closer again.
Anwesha: Give me your hand.
Kabir looked at her quietly.
Then extended it without a word.
This time their distance became even smaller inside the parked car.
Anwesha adjusted the bandage carefully.
Her fingers brushed his wrist once.
Just once.
But enough.
Kabir’s gaze stayed fixed on her face.
Not hidden.
Not distracted.
That awareness made her hands slower.
Kabir: You become very serious while fixing things.
Anwesha: Because someone keeps getting injured unnecessarily.
Kabir: Not unnecessarily.
She looked up.
Anwesha: Then why?
A pause.
His voice lowered.
Kabir: Some people deserve consequences.
That answer again—
dangerous because he said it like truth, not anger.
She studied him quietly.
Then—
Anwesha: You talk like someone who lives in problems.
A faint shadow crossed his face.
But his answer came calm.
Kabir: Maybe problems live around me.
For a second, neither spoke.
The air felt warmer despite rain outside.
When she finished adjusting the bandage, she tried to pull her hand back—
but Kabir caught her fingers gently.
Not sudden.
Not forceful.
Just enough to stop her.
Her breath paused.
His voice became almost a whisper.
Kabir: You ask many questions.
Anwesha: Because you answer very little.
A small smile appeared again.
This time darker.
Kabir: If I answer everything… you may stop looking at me like this.
Her eyes lifted instantly.
Anwesha: Like what?
He held her gaze.
Steady.
Deep.
Too direct.
Kabir: Like I matter more than you admit.
That sentence made the silence sharper.
Neither moved.
The world outside seemed distant.
Only rainwater sliding from the windshield remained audible.
Then her phone vibrated suddenly.
The moment broke.
She quickly withdrew her hand.
Looked at the screen.
Her mother calling.
Anwesha: I should go.
Kabir nodded once.
But his eyes remained on her.
She opened the door halfway—
then stopped.
Turned back.
Anwesha: Take medicine when you reach home.
He answered without hesitation.
Kabir: Only if you message first.
She stared.
Anwesha: That sounds like emotional blackmail.
Kabir: It works sometimes.
For the first time tonight, she smiled properly.
Then stepped out.
Before closing the door—
Anwesha: Goodnight, Kabir.
His reply came low.
Soft.
Yet heavier than expected.
Kabir: Goodnight… Anwesha.
And somehow—
the way he said her name stayed longer than the rain.
