Nine Missed Birthdays

The café was buzzing with life—a mix of laughter, the hum of coffee machines, and the occasional clink of ceramic cups. It was the kind of place that felt too bright for the conversation I was about to have.

I sat by the window, nervously tracing the rim of my coffee mug, rehearsing my lines in my head. “I’m sorry.” No, too simple. “I’ve been a terrible friend.” Too dramatic.

The bell above the door jingled, and I looked up. There she was. Aditi. Her hair was shorter than I remembered, curling softly at her shoulders, and she wore an oversized sweater that made her look even smaller. But her eyes—those deep brown eyes that once held the warmth of a thousand suns—were now cautious, distant.

She spotted me and hesitated for a moment before walking over.

“Hi,” she said, sliding into the seat across from me.

“Hey,” I replied, my voice catching.

The silence that followed was heavy, awkward, like a song stuck on the wrong note.

“So,” she said, her tone clipped, “what’s this about, Karan? Another apology?”

I winced. “I deserve that.”

She crossed her arms, leaning back. “You’ve been ‘deserving’ a lot for the past nine years. What’s different this time?”

I took a deep breath. “I messed up, Aditi. I know that. I missed your birthdays, your calls, your texts. I wasn’t there when you needed me. And I can’t undo that. But I... I want to try to make it right.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Make it right? Karan, you don’t just show up after almost a decade and expect everything to go back to normal.”

“I’m not expecting that,” I said quickly. “I just—look, can you give me one evening? Let me show you how much you mean to me. If you still hate me after that, I’ll never bother you again.”

She studied me for a long moment before sighing. “Fine. One evening. But don’t expect miracles.”

---

x

The plan was simple: nine missed birthdays, nine surprises.

We started at the old bookstore we used to haunt after school. It hadn’t changed much—same creaky wooden shelves, same musty smell of aging paper. I handed her a small, wrapped package.

She opened it cautiously, revealing a copy of The Little Prince.

“You used to say this was your favorite,” I said. “I thought... maybe you’d like to read it again.”

She ran her fingers over the cover, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You remembered.”

We moved on to the park where we’d spent countless evenings, her sketchbook in hand, my guitar slung over my shoulder. This time, I brought her a set of charcoal pencils, each one engraved with a word—“hope,” “dream,” “create.”

Her smile grew wider. “You really went all out, didn’t you?”

“You deserve it,” I said, and for the first time, she didn’t argue.

Next was her favorite street food stall, where we shared a plate of pani puri, laughing as the spicy water brought tears to our eyes. Then a photo booth, where we took silly pictures like we used to, her laughter ringing out like a melody I hadn’t heard in years.

By the time we reached the last stop—a rooftop overlooking the city—she was visibly more relaxed, her guard slipping away.

I handed her the final gift: a bracelet with nine tiny charms, each representing a memory—her favorite book, the sketchbook, a guitar, a pani puri, and more.

She stared at it for a long moment before looking up at me. “Karan, why now? Why not last year, or the year before that?”

I hesitated, the weight of my guilt pressing down on me. “Because I was a coward. I didn’t know how to face you, how to admit that I’d failed you. But when I realized how much I’d lost... I couldn’t stay away anymore.”

She nodded slowly, her eyes glistening. “You hurt me, Karan. More than I can put into words. But tonight... tonight reminded me why I cared so much in the first place.”

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding. “Does that mean I get another chance?”

She smiled—a real, genuine smile that lit up her entire face. “Maybe. But you’re going to have to earn it.”

“I will,” I promised, and this time, I meant it.

As we stood there, the city lights twinkling below us, I realized redemption isn’t about grand gestures or erasing the past. It’s about showing up, again and again, and proving that some bonds are worth fighting for.

The Tornado of Emotions

I stood outside the café, staring at the glass door that reflected a version of me I barely recognized. My palms were damp despite the December chill. I’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times in my head, but the words felt like fragile paper boats in a stormy sea.

And then, there she was.

She walked in, her presence both familiar and distant, like an old ghazal you hum after years, its lyrics half-remembered but still piercing. Her eyes scanned the room, and when they landed on me, they lit up. “Pratap!” she called out, her voice warm and lilting, carrying the same melody it had in school.

I managed a smile, though my heart felt like a tabla on overdrive. “Arushi,” I said, my voice betraying the calm I wanted to project.

We hugged briefly, an awkward mix of hesitation and relief. It had been years since we last met, but the memories flooded back—the chalkboard battles, the shared Maggi during breaks, the stolen glances during debates. And of course, the unspoken words I had carried like a secret talisman all these years.

She looked radiant, the kind of radiant that didn’t come from makeup but from an inner peace I envied. We sat down, and as she spoke about her life—her medical practice, her travels, her family—I nodded, adding the occasional “Wow” or “That’s amazing,” though my mind was elsewhere.

How do you tell someone they’ve been the anchor of your emotional storms? That their absence had been a hollow echo in your otherwise noisy life?

“...And you? What’s new with you?” she asked, her gaze settling on me with genuine curiosity.

I blinked, realizing I hadn’t heard half of what she’d said. “Oh, you know... writing, living, surviving.”

“Still the poet,” she teased, her smile reaching her eyes.

I laughed, a little too loudly. “Well, someone has to romanticize the mundane.”

The waiter interrupted with our coffee, giving me a moment to collect my thoughts. As she stirred her cappuccino, I noticed the delicate silver bracelet on her wrist. I’d given her one just like it for her birthday in tenth grade.

“Arushi,” I began, my voice softer now, “do you ever think about school?”

She tilted her head, her expression curious. “All the time. It was simpler then, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” I said, my words catching in my throat. “But... not everything was simple.”

She put her cup down, her brow furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

I took a deep breath, the kind you take before plunging into freezing water. “I mean... you were always more than just a friend to me.”

The words hung between us like a kite caught in a tree. She didn’t look away, but her expression shifted—soft, understanding, but unreadable.

“Pratap,” she said after a pause, her tone gentle, “I know.”

Of course, she knew. She always had.

“I didn’t bring it up because I didn’t want to lose what we had,” she continued. “And I still don’t.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I get it. I really do. But I needed to say it. Not because I expect anything to change, but because... it’s been with me for so long. Like a song stuck in my head.”

She reached across the table and placed her hand over mine. “I value you, Pratap. More than you know. And I’m glad you told me. It means a lot.”

We sat there in silence for a moment, the noise of the café fading into the background. The tornado of emotions inside me began to settle, leaving behind a strange calm.

Sometimes, closure isn’t about doors shutting; it’s about windows opening, letting in fresh air.

As we walked out into the winter evening, she hugged me again, tighter this time. “Stay in touch, okay?”

“I will,” I promised, and this time, I meant it.

As she walked away, I felt lighter. The words I’d carried for years had finally found their place—not in her heart, but in the space between us, where they could breathe freely.

And that was enough.

What do you want for Christmas?

“What do you want for Christmas?”

The question came casually, her voice soft and warm, like the faint winter sun streaming through the café window. She was stirring her coffee, her eyes focused on the swirling foam as if the answer might rise from its depths.

I hesitated.

There were so many things I wanted — things I couldn’t name aloud. I wanted her laughter to fill every corner of my world, the way it spilled out like the first rain after a dry summer. I wanted her presence, steady and warm, to keep turning my life into a place where light could finally reach. I wanted the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way it made the world pause, to be a moment I could call mine.

But instead, I shrugged and smiled. “You.”

She froze for a moment, her spoon mid-air, before a small laugh escaped her lips. It wasn’t mocking—it was soft, understanding, the kind of laugh that says, I know you mean it.

“Don't be silly,” she said, her tone light but her eyes searching mine, as if trying to gauge how much of that was a joke.

I didn’t flinch. “I never lie. I ask for what I want. And I want you.”

Her gaze dropped to her coffee, and for a moment, the air between us grew heavy, not with awkwardness, but with the weight of truths we both knew. We were friends. We had agreed on that. And yet, the boundaries between friendship and something more had always felt blurred—like a line drawn in sand, constantly shifting with the tides.

“To do my part as a friend,” I added quickly, trying to lighten the moment, “I guess a bean bag would be nice.”

She smiled, the tension breaking just a little. “A bean bag, huh? That’s more reasonable.”

But it wasn’t what I wanted. Not really.

December 25th

We were sitting on a park bench, the cold biting at our fingers as we held steaming cups of chai. The city buzzed around us, but here, in this little corner of the world, it felt like just the two of us.

“What do you really want for Christmas?” she asked suddenly, her voice quieter this time, as if the question carried more weight now.

I looked at her, the winter wind playing with her hair, her cheeks flushed from the cold. There was no hesitation this time.

“A 12-second hug.”

Her brows furrowed, and a small smile tugged at her lips. “A 12-second hug? That’s oddly specific.”

“It’s all I want,” I said, my voice steady. “Twelve seconds where the world doesn’t exist. Just you and me. No words, no boundaries—just a moment to hold onto. That’s it.”

She looked at me, her eyes softening, and for a second, I thought she might say no. But then, she set her cup down and stood up, brushing the dust off her coat.

“Alright,” she said, holding out her arms, “but you better count.”

I stood, the cold forgotten, and stepped into her embrace. Her arms wrapped around me, pulling me close, and I let mine circle her shoulders. She smelled like jasmine and winter, and her warmth seeped into me, chasing away the chill.

“One,” I whispered.

Her head rested against my chest, and I could feel her heartbeat—steady, calm, and yet somehow perfectly in sync with mine.

“Two.”

The world began to fade—the honking cars, the chatter of people, even the icy wind. All that remained was her.

“Three.”

Her grip tightened, just slightly, as if she, too, didn’t want the moment to end.

“Four… five… six…”

I closed my eyes, memorizing the feel of her in my arms, the way her hair tickled my chin, the way her breath warmed my neck.

“Seven… eight… nine…”

Each second felt like a lifetime, yet it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I wanted forever.

“Ten… eleven…”

And then, just as I reached twelve, she pulled back, her hands lingering on my arms for a moment longer than necessary.

“There,” she said softly, her eyes searching mine. “Merry Christmas.”

I smiled, but my heart ached. Not because it was over, but because in those twelve seconds, I’d found everything I’d ever wanted.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She laughed, shaking her head. “For what? It was just a hug.”

But it wasn’t. It was a promise, a memory, a moment I’d carry with me forever.

“It felt like each second, you’d poured your whole self into it,” I said, trying to explain what words never could. “It felt like… magic.”

She didn’t respond, but her smile told me she understood.

And as we walked away, side by side, I realized that sometimes, the smallest gestures—the ones that last just twelve seconds—can mean more than a lifetime of words. 

Did you sleep?

The screen of my phone flickered with the subtle pulse of a new message. It was her—as always, it seemed, the one constant in the midst of my disquiet. I had been restless for days, the kind of sleeplessness that seeps into your bones, a gnawing ache that doesn't let go. The kind that doesn’t respond to the usual remedies—music, tea, silence. Only time, perhaps, could heal it, but time felt like an empty currency these days.

Her message arrived, a gentle interruption in my spiraling thoughts:
Me: Lost sleep

A few seconds passed before the familiar rhythm of her typing dots appeared. My thumb hovered over the screen, unsure of how to respond. The loss of sleep wasn’t just physical. It was a lingering absence, a space left unfilled, a quiet echo that I couldn’t chase away. But then her reply came—unexpected, simple, and yet it pierced through the haze.

Her: When did you find it again?

A soft laugh escaped me, the kind that bubbles up without sound, like a secret joke. When did I find it again?
Had I? The truth was, I didn’t know. The sleep I had lost had never really been found. Perhaps it was never meant to be. I wondered if she understood the weight of her question. Was she asking about the literal sleep I had abandoned for restless nights, or was she probing something deeper—about me, about us, about the spaces between what we said and what we felt?

I stared at the blinking cursor on the screen, the words heavy on my fingertips.
Me: Maybe I never lost it at all. Maybe I just misplaced it in the wrong place.

Her reply came quickly, as if she had been waiting for that moment:
Her: And where is the wrong place?

I thought about it for a moment. The wrong place? It could be anywhere, really. A city that had forgotten the taste of silence, a heart that had forgotten how to rest, a conversation that had lingered too long in unspoken words. It was all tangled together, threads that I couldn’t quite unravel.

Me: Maybe it’s in all the things I never said. Maybe it’s in the spaces between us, the quiet moments we never acknowledged.

The dots appeared again, and I could almost feel her hesitation, as if she were weighing the depth of my words. I imagined her, sitting somewhere in the quiet of her own night, perhaps with the same restless thoughts swirling around her. Was she thinking of me, of this conversation, or was I just another distraction to fill the silence?

Her: You know, sometimes I think we lose things only to find them in places we never thought to look.

I stared at her words for a long time, the silence between us growing longer, deeper. What did she mean? Was she speaking of me? Of us? Or was this just another one of her cryptic musings, the kind that left me with more questions than answers?

Me: And sometimes we never find them at all. But maybe that's okay.

I waited, the screen still aglow in the dark room. Her reply didn’t come for a while, and for the first time in days, I felt something shift inside me. It wasn’t peace, exactly, but a kind of quiet resignation. The sleep I had lost might never return, but perhaps that was the way it was meant to be. Some things, like sleep, like love, like understanding, could only be found when we stopped looking for them so desperately.

Then, as if she had been reading my thoughts, her final message arrived:
Her: Maybe the sleep you’re looking for is just the quiet in between us. The space we leave for the things we don’t need to say.

And just like that, the restless ache in my chest softened. I smiled to myself, the kind of smile that lingers on the edge of an unspoken truth. Maybe she was right. Maybe the sleep I had been seeking wasn’t lost after all. Maybe it was waiting in the silence.

Call 2:43 a.m

It was 2:43 a.m. when my phone buzzed softly on the bedside table. Half-asleep, I reached out, fumbling for the device, squinting at the name that lit up the screen. It was her.

For a moment, I hesitated. Not because I didn’t want to answer, but because I knew what it meant. A call at this hour wasn’t casual. It wasn’t about the weather or a meme she’d seen. It was something deeper.

I answered.

"Hey," her voice came through, soft and hesitant, like she wasn’t sure she should’ve called.

"Hey," I replied, my voice still heavy with sleep but laced with warmth. "You okay?"

There was a pause. A silence so fragile, it felt like the world had stopped to listen. Then she spoke.

"I… I couldn’t sleep," she said, her voice cracking just slightly. "I needed to hear your voice."

Her words hit me like a quiet storm, shaking something deep inside me. I sat up, the grogginess fading. "I’m here," I said, simply.

She exhaled, a sound that carried relief and vulnerability all at once. "I’m sorry for calling so late. I just… I didn’t know who else to call."

"You don’t have to apologize," I said firmly. "You can call me anytime. Middle of the night, middle of the day—doesn’t matter. I want you to."

There was a soft laugh on the other end, and I could almost see her smile, the way her lips curved, the way her eyes softened. "You make it sound so easy."

"Because it is," I said. "I want to be the person you can call, no matter what time it is. I want you to know that I’ll always pick up."

Another pause, but this time it felt lighter, like she was letting my words settle around her. "You’re too good to me," she whispered.

I wanted to tell her that it wasn’t about being good. It was about needing her voice as much as she needed mine. But I didn’t say that. Instead, I asked, "What’s on your mind?"

She hesitated, then said, "I was thinking about us. About how I want to call you in the middle of the night and not feel guilty about it. I want to know that it’s okay, that I’m not bothering you."

"You could never bother me," I said, the words coming out so easily, so naturally. "If anything, I’d be upset if you didn’t call."

She laughed again, this time a little louder, a little freer. "You’re ridiculous."

"Maybe," I said, smiling. "But I mean it. I want to be that person for you. Always."

There was a long silence after that, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that felt full, like everything that needed to be said was already understood.

"Thank you," she finally said, her voice soft but steady.

"For what?"

"For being you."

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just let the words hang in the air, their weight settling into my chest.

For the next hour, we talked about everything and nothing. She told me about the dream she’d had that woke her up, about the book she was reading, about the way she’d always wanted to learn how to play the guitar but never got around to it. I listened, chiming in occasionally, but mostly just soaking in the sound of her voice.

By the time we hung up, the first rays of dawn were creeping through my window. I lay back down, the phone still warm in my hand, and smiled.

Because in that moment, I realized something: It wasn’t just about her calling me in the middle of the night. It was about her trusting me with her silences, her fears, her moments of vulnerability. It was about being the person she thought of when the world felt too heavy.

And that? That was everything.

Jaadugar Hai Woh

The first time I saw her, she was standing under the old neem tree outside my college, the sunlight dappling her face like an artist had deliberately painted her in golden strokes. She wasn't extraordinary in the usual sense—there were no loud traits, no screaming gestures demanding attention. Yet, people couldn’t look away. Neither could I.

"Kaise kar leti hai yeh?" I once muttered to Rohan, my roommate, as we watched her from the canteen. He shrugged.

"Jaadugar hai woh," he replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It became her name for me—Jaadugar.

She was magic in the way she spoke, the words soft and careful, but they carved into you, like chisels shaping marble. I thought I had seen all kinds of people—loud ones who echoed in corridors and silent ones who dissolved in shadows. She was neither. She lingered. She filled a room quietly, the way sunlight fills spaces under doors, uninvited yet welcome.

When she entered my life, I was just another young man navigating through empty friendships and sleepless nights. My hostel room had cracks in the walls, just like my heart had cracks I never spoke about. That day, after spotting her for weeks, we finally spoke. She sat on the bench in the college courtyard, scribbling into a diary. I had no courage to speak, but Rohan pushed me forward.

She looked up, her eyes meeting mine—a gaze so steady, I thought she had read me whole.

“Tum likhti ho?” I blurted, regretting the mundanity of my words.

She smiled. It wasn’t a loud smile, but it was enough to quiet everything else.

“Likh leti hoon. Aur tum?”

“Padh leta hoon.”

It wasn’t funny, but she laughed—quietly, softly. “Good combination. Tum padh lo, main likh loon.”

From that day, she would leave her diary on the table when I came to meet her, and I would read. There were ghazals in there, some sad couplets—

"Dhadhkte dil ko pathar banana aata hai,

Usey jaadu aata hai."

Jaadu hi toh tha. She turned my crowded, chaotic heart into a place of silence—like she had woven magic into it. Days became weeks, and the weeks became months. I watched her the way someone watches fire—awed and afraid, knowing it could warm them or burn them alive. I thought I knew her. I thought we shared the same rhythm, but Jaadugars never show you all their tricks, do they?

Days turned into weeks, and still, she remained a mystery to me. I learned the rhythms of her silence, the way her eyes would wander to the sky when she was lost in thought, the way she would pause before speaking, as though measuring each word before letting it fall. I knew her in fragments—the way she loved the rain, how she would hum soft tunes when she thought no one was listening, how she always had a book in her bag, but never the same one twice. Yet, there was so much I didn’t know. So much she didn’t show.

And I never asked.

I didn't need to. The silence between us was enough. It was a language of its own—one that spoke of things that words could never capture. Her presence, like the quiet warmth of the sun on a cold morning, filled the spaces between us.

But then, one day, she didn’t come to the courtyard. I waited for hours, my eyes scanning the benches, the corners where she usually sat. Nothing. I asked Rohan, but he didn’t know either. The day passed, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of something missing.

The next day, she was there again, sitting under the neem tree, as if nothing had happened. But something was different. She was quieter, more distant. Her smile, once warm, now seemed forced, like she was holding something back.

I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I had to know.

I walked up to her, my heart pounding in my chest. She didn’t look up when I approached, and for a moment, I thought maybe I had imagined everything—the connection, the magic. But then she spoke, her voice soft, but carrying a weight I hadn’t heard before.

"Do you ever wonder, if all this is just... smoke and mirrors?"

I didn’t know what she meant. “What do you mean?”

She looked up at me then, her eyes filled with something I couldn’t place—something between sadness and resignation. “We’re all just pretending, aren’t we? Pretending that we have it all figured out. That we’re okay. But we’re not. None of us are.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I had never seen her like this—vulnerable, uncertain. It was like the walls she had built around herself were finally crumbling, and I didn’t know how to hold her up.

“You’re not pretending,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me. “You’re... you’re real. You’re magic.”

She shook her head, a small, bitter smile curling on her lips. “Magic? Maybe. But magic doesn’t last. Eventually, it fades. And when it does, what’s left?”

I didn’t know how to answer her. The words I had for her—those quiet, unspoken things—felt suddenly inadequate. How could I explain that she had changed me? That in the silence we shared, I had found something more real than anything I had ever known?

I wanted to reach out to her, to tell her that I didn’t need her to be perfect, that I didn’t need her to have all the answers. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

“I don’t want it to fade,” I said instead. “I want to see it, every day. I want to see you.”

She looked at me for a long moment, her eyes searching mine, as if weighing my words, testing their truth. Then, with a sigh, she stood up. “Maybe you should. Maybe you should see me before I disappear.”

And just like that, she was gone again. Vanishing into the crowd, leaving me standing there, my heart full of questions I didn’t know how to ask.

The next few days were a blur. I went through the motions—attending classes, meeting friends, pretending that everything was fine. But inside, I was unraveling. The silence between us felt heavier now, like a weight pressing down on my chest. I couldn’t stop thinking about her—about the way she had looked at me, the way she had spoken as though she was saying goodbye.

I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t know if she was pulling away, or if she was just waiting for me to understand. But I knew one thing for sure: I had to see her again.

I didn’t wait for her to come to me. I couldn’t. I went to her. To the old neem tree, the place where everything had started. And there she was, sitting under the shade, her diary open in her lap, as if nothing had changed.

But something had. The air between us was different now, charged with something unspoken, something fragile.

“I don’t want to lose you,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I don’t want to be just another chapter in your book.”

She looked up, her eyes softening. For a moment, I thought she might say something—anything—but then she closed her diary and stood up.

“You won’t,” she said simply. “You won’t lose me. But you have to let me go sometimes. You have to let me be magic, even if it doesn’t make sense.”

And for the first time, I understood.

She wasn’t mine to hold. She was hers, and in her own way, she had already given me everything. Her silence, her words, her magic.

And I would carry it with me, even if she wasn’t there.