Stuck Voyage of 20's

Days passed like slow-moving clouds over Ujjain — warm, heavy, and full of what-ifs.

Dhruv was gone. And Avantika, for the first time in years, felt completely unanchored. No debates. No sarcastic banter. No boy with annoying smirks who somehow managed to see through all her walls.

She wasn't sad in the typical sense — she was haunted. By his words. His silences. That damn half-smile he wore when trying to look brave.

So she started writing to him.

But never sent them.

She called them Letters to the Sky.

Each night, she'd sit on the terrace of her home, under the soft hum of a bulb and the vast sky, writing her thoughts like he was right there listening.

---

> Dear You,

I saw a couple today on the ghat. They were arguing over which flavor of kulfi to get. It was ridiculous. And weirdly comforting.

I wonder what flavor you'd choose. Mango, I bet. Basic.

—A.

---

> Dear Dhruv,

I miss how you used to challenge my thoughts. Now when I spiral into one of my "what is the point of life" moods… it echoes too much.

But you'd probably say something like, "Maybe life isn't a question. Maybe it's a riddle with no answer, just a rhythm."

I hated how right you were sometimes.

—Avantika

---

One evening, after a long exhausting class and failed attempts at focusing on her dissertation, Avantika visited the same ghat where they'd last talked.

She sat on the same step.

But this time… someone was already sitting two steps away — a stranger with a sketchpad.

He was sketching the temple's silhouette.

He looked up and smiled politely. "Sorry, do you mind? I usually come here to draw at sunset."

Avantika shook her head. "It's okay. This ghat belongs to everyone with a messy head."

He chuckled. "Then I guess we're both home."

A quiet companionship formed over the next few evenings. His name was Kabir. An art student from Indore, visiting Ujjain for a project on Indian temple architecture and human emotions in sacred spaces. He was calm, observant, and not Dhruv — and maybe that's why Avantika let herself talk.

Not everything. But enough.

One evening, as Kabir sketched the river, he asked, "Why do you always look like you're about to cry, but never do?"

Avantika looked away. "Because if I cry, I'll have to admit something's missing."

He paused, then quietly tore a page from his sketchbook.

It was a drawing — of her. Sitting on the ghat, lost in thought. A diya floated beside her reflection in the river.

"I drew this last evening. Thought you should see yourself the way I do — still, but not stuck."

Avantika didn't know what to say. Her fingers trembled as she held the paper.

And just as she looked up to thank him…

Her phone buzzed.

A message. From Dhruv.

> "Hey… I saw a girl today at the camp who reminded me of you. She was arguing with a vending machine. I smiled. I think I miss you."

Her breath caught.

She looked at the sketch in her hand.

And then at the message on her phone.

And for the first time, she wasn't sure which way her story was heading.