Aarav woke up late the next morning with the uncomfortable awareness that he'd slept through three alarms.
Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, harsh and unapologetic, landing directly on his face. He groaned and turned away, pulling the pillow over his head. For a moment, the night before felt unreal—too quiet, too specific to be a dream, too gentle to be remembered clearly.
Then he noticed the earphones tangled beside him on the bed.
He sat up.
His phone lay face-down near his chest. When he picked it up, the screen lit instantly, as if it had been waiting.
No new notifications.
A strange disappointment settled in his stomach, irrational and immediate. He shook it off, scolding himself. It had been one conversation. One late night with a stranger whose face he hadn't seen, whose world he couldn't picture fully.
And yet.
As he brushed his teeth, Ira's voice replayed in his head—not the words exactly, but the cadence. The pauses. The way she sounded like she wasn't trying to impress anyone.
He caught his reflection in the mirror and frowned.
Get a grip, he told himself.
Classes passed in fragments that day. Aarav sat through lectures with his notebook open and his pen unmoving, eyes flicking to his phone more often than he'd like to admit. Every vibration made his heart jump, even when it was just a group message or a delivery update.
By evening, the anticipation had sharpened into something almost physical.
He told himself he wouldn't check the app. He told himself he wouldn't wait.
At 12:03 a.m., his phone buzzed.
Voice note — 0:19 seconds
"You awake?"
Aarav smiled before he could stop himself.
"Yes," he replied, voice low. "I was hoping you'd message."
She laughed softly.
"So was I."
That became their unspoken understanding. Midnight wasn't a time anymore—it was a place they both arrived at, separately, every night.
They talked longer this time. Less cautiously. Ira asked questions now—not invasive ones, but curious ones.
"What scares you?" she asked suddenly.
Aarav thought about lying. Something small. Something acceptable.
Instead, he said, "Being forgettable."
There was no hesitation in her reply.
"I don't think people who notice things ever are."
The words stayed with him long after the call ended.
Over the next few nights, their conversations grew more personal. They talked about childhood memories, about moments that embarrassed them, about the strange loneliness that came from living in cities full of people.
Ira told him about her school—about teachers who talked more than they listened, about the pressure to perform without being understood.
"I feel like I'm always preparing for something," she said once. "Like my life hasn't started yet."
Aarav understood that feeling too well.
One night, without thinking much about it, he said, "We should probably exchange pictures at some point."
The silence that followed was immediate and heavy.
He regretted it instantly.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "You don't have to. I didn't mean—"
"I'd rather not," Ira said, her voice quiet but steady.
"Oh," he said. "Okay."
"It's not about you," she added after a moment. "It's just… this feels safer."
"Safer how?"
"If you see me," she said slowly, "you'll start expecting things. And I don't want to be something you imagine instead of someone you hear."
Aarav closed his eyes.
"I like hearing you," he said. "That's enough."
Another pause.
Then, softly, "Thank you."
That night, after they hung up, Aarav lay awake longer than usual. He replayed their conversations, noticing how much space she gave him to speak, how little pressure there was to perform or impress.
He realized, with a quiet jolt, that he was already structuring his days around those midnight hours. That he was more himself in those conversations than anywhere else.
It scared him a little.
It comforted him more.
At 3:58 a.m., before sleep finally claimed him, he opened his notes app and typed something he didn't plan to show anyone.
Some voices don't fill silence.
They make room for it.
He didn't know it yet, but this was the first thing he'd written that felt true.