Stuck Voyage of 20's

Avantika

The sky outside her window had turned that muted orange-blue that only appeared right before dusk, as if even the universe didn't know what shade to be.

Avantika sat on her desk, fingers unmoving above her keyboard. The cursor blinked like an impatient heartbeat. She had opened her internship task hours ago—a pitch deck on sustainable brands—but her brain felt like sludge.

Her mother's words still echoed in waves.

Your father expected more.

You were always the brightest.

Talent fades if not directed.

It was strange, how even in her twenties, those words still held the same power they did when she was thirteen, sitting at the dining table with exam sheets trembling in her hands.

She stood up abruptly and opened her cupboard. Somewhere behind the extra bedsheets and an old folder of certificates, she pulled out a photo album.

There it was.

A photo of her standing in her Class 7 elocution competition—smiling like she knew she belonged on that stage. Her father, beside her, proud but unreadable.

She ran a finger across the photo.

"I wish you understood me… even now."

Her phone vibrated.

Dhruv: Still alive, genius?

Time: 5:42 PM

It wasn't a grand message. Not emotional. Just one of those playful, slightly sarcastic check-ins he used to send after her panic attacks during boards. But it came like a breath of air in a room that had been shut too long.

She stared at it.

A hundred thoughts ran through her head: What does he want? Why now? Is he okay?

But what she replied was—

Avantika: Barely. Was trying to remember if I ever beat you in debates.

Dhruv: Bold of you to assume you ever came close.

Avantika: Still delusional, I see.

The banter lasted exactly six texts. Just enough to stir something.

Just enough to remind her of who she used to be when she didn't feel so… unseen.

---

Dhruv

The ball thudded against the court with dull rhythm. One. Two. Three.

It was almost dark, but Dhruv stayed. Practicing layups alone under the flickering hostel floodlight. His breath fogged up in the early July air.

His legs were still sore. His ankle slightly taped. But that wasn't why he was tired. It wasn't physical.

It was everything else.

The expectations. The "what next" questions. The silence from his father after dropping him off. The way no one had asked if he was okay after the win—only what he would do next.

He made one final shot and let the ball bounce away.

Back in his room, he lay flat on the bed, one arm covering his eyes.

That's when he'd texted her.

He didn't even think. It was muscle memory. In all the years—no matter how bitter things had gotten—Avantika was the only person who ever truly listened without trying to fix him.

When her reply came, short and sarcastic, something relaxed in his chest.

Like a knot untying, slowly.

It wasn't a reconciliation.

But it was something.

---

Later that Night

Avantika curled up in bed, a small smile flickering on her lips. Riya asked who she was texting. She just shrugged, "No one serious."

Dhruv lay on his stomach, scrolling through old photos of their school days—back when things were simple, when life hadn't become this competition of checklists.

Neither of them said it, but both felt it:

That quiet pull.

That invisible thread still connecting them.

Despite the time. Despite the silence. Despite themselves.

---

To be continued…

---