One beat per second

The first thing I remember is the silence.

That heavy, unbreathing kind of silence that only exists at 3:47 a.m. in a city like this, half asleep, half mourning something unnamed. My ceiling fan creaked in rhythm, the tube light blinked like it was tired of being alive, and somewhere beyond my window, a stray dog barked into the night. I was supposed to be asleep. Instead, I woke up like the world had just pulled an invisible alarm inside my chest.

My body knew before I did. This wasn’t just a wake-up. It was one of those panic awakenings. The kind where your heartbeat is too loud, too fast, and your breath chases it like it’s running late. I sat up on the bed, cold sweat sticking to my back, the air sharp with December’s chill. I couldn’t name it, but I could feel it—the same restlessness that had her name written all over it.

I didn’t fight it. I reached for my phone.

4% battery. Enough for one message.

My fingers moved before I could think.

Please forgive me writing this. But it gives 1% smoothness to this tornado heart.

I stared at the words for a long time. They looked stupid. Childish, maybe. But I wasn’t trying to sound poetic. I just needed to breathe.

So I wrote more.

Only you calm me down when I am having a panic attack. Thinking about you gives me one, and not thinking about you gives me more. Yet when I see you, it slows down. One beat per second.

I read that last line twice.

It didn’t sound like something I’d write. It sounded like something my heartbeat would say if it could talk.

And then, impulsively, like a man standing at the edge of his own restraint, I typed another message.

Wake me up with a call if you want to hear my sleepy sexy voice.

I laughed. It wasn’t me. Not really. Maybe that’s why I sent it. Because sometimes when your heart is breaking too quietly, you try to say something that sounds lighter than the truth.

I locked the screen and threw the phone beside me.

And then I waited.

The city outside was a thousand muted sounds—the auto’s distant horn, a train sighing in the distance, someone’s old Bollywood ringtone echoing from a balcony. I thought about her. I always did. Ten years of thinking, quietly, steadily. Loving her had become like breathing. I didn’t know when it started, but I knew I couldn’t stop.

When her reply came, the screen lit up the room like a confession.

I wish I could feel the same for you.

I read it once. Then again. And again, until it didn’t sting anymore—just floated in that numb space between truth and tenderness. She wasn’t cruel. She never was. She knew everything. She just didn’t feel it. And I respected that. Love doesn’t always have to be returned; sometimes it just has to be known.

Still, I replied.

Just keep an open heart. If it sparks, don’t ignore it. That’s all I’m asking for.

No response after that. Just the sound of the fan and my heartbeat, syncing slowly. One beat per second. For the first time that night, I could breathe again.

---

By morning, the panic was gone, replaced by that dull ache of remembering too much. The sun broke through the curtains in weak strips of gold, the city had started moving, and my phone was almost dead. I typed a simple message—Good morning. Sent it. Closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, it was nearly noon.

Her message was there. Just one emoji—a small, sleepy smile. No words. But it was enough to keep the world from collapsing entirely.

---

We met that evening, like we sometimes did, in that tiny café near her office, the one with overcooked pasta and bad jazz. She wore a plain blue kurta, hair tied loosely, eyes unreadable as always. I loved that about her, how her calmness made everyone else fidget.

“You look tired,” she said.

“Didn’t sleep much,” I replied, sipping my coffee. “Woke up in the middle of the night. One of those weird panic things.”

“Again?” she asked, concerned. “You really should talk to someone.”

“I did,” I said. “You.”

She smiled faintly, half amused, half uncomfortable. “That’s not healthy.”

“I know.” I paused. “But it’s honest.”

She looked away. Outside, traffic lights blinked red through the rain. I could see her reflection in the window—soft, indifferent, somewhere between affection and distance. I wanted to tell her that her reflection hurt more than her rejection ever could. But I didn’t.

“You sent me some strange messages last night,” she said after a pause.

“I know.”

“You said you loved me.”

“I did.”

She sighed, not dramatically, just with quiet acceptance. “I respect how you feel. I just… don’t feel that way about you.”

I nodded. “Understandable.”

We sat in silence for a while. The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled because both people already know everything that could be said.

After a long time, she asked softly, “What did you mean by ‘one beat per second’?”

I smiled. “That’s what happens when I see you. My panic slows down. Everything does.”

She didn’t say anything. Just kept looking at me, maybe searching for something she could believe in, or something she could ignore.

Finally, she said, “You’ll be fine, you know. You just… feel things too deeply.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe everyone else feels too shallow.”

Her laughter broke the tension, light and brief. For a moment, it was just the sound of two people who used to belong to the same silence. Then she said she had to go. We stood, paid the bill, walked out.

Outside, the air was thick with rain. The sky, dim. She pulled her dupatta close and said, “Take care, okay?”

I nodded. “You too.”

She turned and walked toward the auto stand, her silhouette blurring into the drizzle. I watched until I couldn’t see her anymore, until all that remained was the echo of her steps fading into the city’s hum.