Episode-2

Chapter 2: The Girl in the Margins

It had been three days since Aarav found the diary.

Three days, and yet he hadn’t stopped thinking about her.

Not her face — because he didn’t know what she looked like.

Not her voice — because he had never heard it.

But her words... her words had rooted themselves in the softest part of his mind, blooming there like secrets that finally had air.

Each night, under the dim lamp on his bedside table, he read a few more pages. Slowly. Reverently. Like her diary was a holy text and he, a devoted pilgrim.

Tonight, the rain returned — soft and rhythmic, like fingers tapping glass with a story to tell.

Aarav opened the diary again.

“Day 9: Today I followed a scent. Isn’t that strange? Not a person. Not a voice. Just a scent — of old books, rain-soaked earth, and something I can’t name. It reminded me of my father’s coat. Or maybe a memory I never lived. Funny how things find you when you stop looking.”

Aarav paused.

He had smelled something similar just this morning on the train — faint, like old paper and clove. He had thought it was from a nearby passenger. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

He kept reading.

“Day 10: I passed a stranger today who looked lost — not in the physical way. Emotionally misplaced. I almost wanted to ask him, ‘Do you feel like you belong anywhere?’ But I didn’t. Because I don’t either. Maybe that’s what home is — not a place, but a person who lets you be lost without making you feel guilty about it.”

Aarav leaned back.

No one had ever spoken the way she did. Her thoughts weren’t filtered. They weren’t built for admiration. They were honest — raw enough to bleed.

And in that honesty, he found something he hadn't known he was missing.

The next page surprised him.

There was no dated entry — just a sketch.

A half-drawn face. Only the eyes were complete — large, tired, and gentle. They stared back at him as though they knew him. Underneath was a single line:

“I think if someone looked at me long enough, they’d see all the parts I hide.”

Aarav closed the diary slowly.

The rain outside grew heavier, its rhythm now almost matching the thud of his heart.

He didn’t understand it.

This wasn’t love — it couldn’t be. How do you love someone you’ve never met? But it was something close. Something softer, deeper. Like recognition in a forgotten dream.

He lay back on his pillow, staring at the ceiling, the diary resting on his chest.

The next morning, Aarav took a different route to work — without meaning to. He ended up near the old city library, the one he hadn’t visited since college. The scent of damp pages floated out as he passed it.

Just like she wrote.

He didn’t go inside. He just stood there.

Listening.

Searching.

Feeling foolish — and yet, completely at peace.

And as he turned to leave, something caught his eye.

A mural across the street. Painted on a crumbling wall. Faded, but visible. A girl holding a book to her chest, standing alone in a crowd of shadows. Underneath, in pale blue:

“Some people are stories waiting to be read.”

Aarav froze.

He had read those exact words. Page 5. Second paragraph.

It couldn’t be a coincidence.

Could it?

He didn’t know what this was — fate, obsession, or the beginning of something he’d never understand — but he knew one thing:

She wasn’t just a voice in a diary anymore.

She was out there.

Somewhere.

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