Sometimes you don't realize what you have…
Until you feel what it's like to lose it.
And sometimes… that realization comes a little too late.
The day of the results arrived faster than either of them expected.
The entire campus buzzed with excitement.
Students gathered in groups, whispering, guessing, hoping.
The national competition results were about to be announced.
Meera stood near the notice board, her fingers tightly gripping the edge of her notebook.
Her eyes scanned the crowd.
Not for the result.
For him.
Aarav stood a few steps away.
Not beside her.
Not with her.
Just… there.
The distance between them felt small.
But real.
And neither of them crossed it.
"Results will be out in five minutes," someone said.
Meera nodded absently.
Her focus wasn't on the board.
It wasn't on the competition.
It was on the silence between them.
The silence that hadn't been broken.
The silence that had changed everything.
She glanced at Aarav.
He was looking straight ahead.
Calm.
Unbothered.
Or at least, that's how it looked.
Does it really not matter to him?
The thought stung more than she expected.
She looked away quickly.
"This is stupid," she whispered under her breath.
Why did it matter?
Why did he matter?
The answer came quietly.
Because he did.
More than she wanted to admit.
—
The crowd suddenly shifted.
Voices rose.
"They're out!"
Meera's attention snapped back.
The results were posted.
Students rushed forward.
Pushing.
Excited.
Anxious.
Meera moved closer, her heartbeat steady but loud in her ears.
Her eyes searched the list.
Line by line.
Then—
She found it.
Their names.
At the top.
Rank 1.
For a second—
Everything else disappeared.
They had won.
All the work.
All the effort.
It had paid off.
A small smile appeared on her face.
Instinctively—
She turned.
Looking for him.
Aarav was already looking at the board.
His expression unreadable.
Then slowly—
He looked at her.
And for a brief moment—
Everything felt like before.
Like the rivalry.
Like the partnership.
Like the moments they had shared.
But it didn't last.
The silence returned.
And the distance with it.
"We won," Meera said softly.
"Yeah."
That was it.
No excitement.
No celebration.
Just acknowledgment.
Meera's smile faded slightly.
"This is what we wanted."
"I know."
Another pause.
Another silence.
And suddenly—
The victory didn't feel the same.
Because something was missing.
Someone was missing.
Even though he was right there.
—
Later, the department organized a small celebration.
Students gathered.
Teachers congratulated them.
Photos were taken.
People smiled.
But Meera felt… detached.
She stood among everyone.
But her attention kept drifting.
To Aarav.
He was talking to a professor.
Answering questions.
Looking composed.
Like nothing had changed.
Like nothing had happened.
How is he acting so normal?
The thought frustrated her.
Because she couldn't.
Not anymore.
After a while, Meera stepped outside.
Away from the noise.
Away from the crowd.
The evening air felt cooler.
Quieter.
She leaned against the railing, closing her eyes for a moment.
Why does this feel incomplete?
They had won.
That was supposed to be enough.
But it wasn't.
Because she wasn't standing beside him.
Because they weren't sharing this moment.
Because the distance between them felt louder than the celebration behind her.
"You always leave when things get loud."
Meera's eyes opened.
She turned.
Aarav stood there.
A few steps away.
Her heartbeat shifted.
"I needed some air."
Aarav nodded.
"Same."
Silence.
Again.
But this time—
It felt heavier.
More important.
More fragile.
"We won," Meera said again.
"Yeah."
Another pause.
Then—
"Congratulations."
"You too."
Their voices were calm.
Polite.
Distant.
And it felt wrong.
Meera tightened her grip on the railing.
"Is this it?" she asked suddenly.
Aarav frowned slightly.
"What?"
"This," she said. "Is this how it ends?"
Aarav looked at her.
"What do you mean?"
"We worked together. We won. And now… nothing?"
Aarav's expression shifted.
"What do you expect?"
Meera hesitated.
"I don't know."
"Exactly."
That answer wasn't enough.
It shouldn't have been enough.
But it was all she had.
"I thought…" she stopped.
Then shook her head.
"It doesn't matter."
Aarav stepped closer.
"It does."
Meera looked at him.
"No, it doesn't."
"It does."
Silence stretched between them.
Tense.
Unsteady.
And then—
Aarav said quietly—
"You pushed me away."
The words landed heavily.
Meera's breath caught.
"I didn't—"
"You did."
"I just—"
"You didn't want to deal with it."
Meera looked away.
Because he was right.
And that made it harder to argue.
"I didn't know what to say," she admitted softly.
Aarav watched her.
"That doesn't mean you say nothing."
"I thought it would be easier."
Aarav let out a quiet breath.
"Was it?"
Meera shook her head.
"No."
Silence again.
But different this time.
Less defensive.
More honest.
"I didn't want things to change," she said.
Aarav's voice softened.
"They already did."
Meera looked at him.
"I know."
For a moment—
Everything felt clear.
Simple.
Honest.
And terrifying.
"I didn't want to lose what we had," she said.
Aarav held her gaze.
"And now?"
Meera hesitated.
Then said—
"I think I already did."
The words came out quietly.
But they carried weight.
Real weight.
Aarav stepped closer.
"You didn't."
Meera looked up.
"What?"
"You didn't lose it," he said. "You just stopped trying."
That hurt.
Because it was true.
"I didn't know how," she whispered.
Aarav's expression softened.
"Then learn."
The simplicity of his answer caught her off guard.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
Meera let out a small breath.
"You make it sound easy."
"It's not," Aarav admitted. "But it's not impossible either."
Meera looked at him.
Really looked at him.
And for the first time—
She didn't feel like stepping back.
She didn't feel like avoiding it.
She just… stayed.
"I'm sorry," she said.
Aarav didn't respond immediately.
Then he nodded.
"Okay."
That was it.
No long speech.
No complicated explanation.
Just… acceptance.
And somehow—
That felt like enough.
For now.
They stood there for a moment longer.
Not speaking.
But not distant either.
Just… there.
Together.
And for the first time in days—
The silence didn't feel like distance.
It felt like something rebuilding.
Slowly.
Carefully.
But real.
And maybe—
That was enough to start again.