Stuck Voyage of 20's

(Because sometimes, the spaces between people aren't gaps — they're bridges waiting to be crossed.)

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The early mornings in Dehradun had their own kind of poetry. The fellowship campus where Avantika now lived was surrounded by hills that always looked like they were stretching after sleep. She'd begun her days with chai and silence, letting her thoughts gather before diving into manuscripts and writing sessions.

This morning, she sat on a patch of grass, notebook open, trying to finish the ending of a story about a girl who never said what she truly felt.

She stared at the page.

Then, suddenly, crossed out the last paragraph.

Too clean, she thought. Too unreal.

Her real life didn't end in perfect symmetry. It unfolded, stumbled, paused, and found rhythm again. If she was going to write honestly, she had to let it breathe.

---

In Delhi, Dhruv sat in a corner café, laptop open. The mentorship proposal he'd submitted for the national workshop had just received approval for a pilot run in four schools.

He should've been celebrating.

But instead, he was… still.

A kind of stillness that didn't mean something was wrong — just that something was missing.

Not her.

But the version of himself that existed around her — calmer, more aware, more open. He didn't crave her presence. He missed the conversations, the way she used to challenge his thinking.

He scrolled through her latest blog entry.

> "We are told growing up means letting go. But no one tells us that some people stay with us not as lovers, not as regrets — but as roots. Quiet, unseen, but holding us steady."

He didn't comment.

He just bookmarked it.

---

Later that week, Avantika received a small envelope at her door. No name. Just a typed label:

For when words fail.

Inside was a single folded page.

A pressed hibiscus flower. And a note:

> *"You once said writing is a wound that makes art. But I think you're the kind of writer who makes healing look like rebellion.

From someone who learned how to listen — because of you."*

There was no name.

But she didn't need one.

She smiled, placed the flower inside her journal, and whispered, "So you're still here… in the quiet ways."

---

The next few days moved quickly.

Avantika's workshop group praised her short story draft. Her mentor told her, "You write about pain like it's sunlight through cracked glass." She began building her final manuscript — a novella titled "Still Learning to Love."

And Dhruv? He was scheduled to give a TEDx talk on mental resilience in student athletes. Something he never imagined himself doing. Something she once dared him to try — years ago, during their undergrad days.

He smiled, remembering her exact words:

"Say something that outlives the noise."

Now, he was ready.

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That night, Avantika sat at her desk. Rain tapped on the window like fingers playing a shy rhythm. She had one unread message on her phone — from Dhruv.

It wasn't long.

> Dhruv: "TEDx next week. You once said I had something to say. I finally listened. Thought you should know."

She replied instantly.

> Avantika: "I'll be watching. And I'll be proud — not for what you say, but for who you've become."

She paused. Then added:

> "P.S. Your flower made it to Chapter 6."

No reply came.

But she knew he was smiling somewhere in a corner of Delhi.

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