If Only He Knew

There was a new kind of silence between them now.

Not the silence of strangers.
Not even the silence of longing.

It was the silence of almost-knowing.
Of something that stood at the edge of being spoken.

Riya felt it with every glance, every step, every heartbeat that sped up when Shubman was in the room.

Because he was in the room now — more often than not.

Since the day of his second visit, he'd returned three more times. Always under the guise of the youth wellness campaign, always with the same calm charm. But Riya knew better.

He didn't need to be here that often.

Not unless he was looking for something.

Not unless... he was looking for her.

She saw it in the way he lingered in conversations near her office door.
In the way he made small talk with the nurses just long enough for her to pass by.
In the way his eyes flicked toward her before he answered a question — like she was the only one who could confirm if he was being honest.

He never asked her directly about the blog again.

But he didn't need to.

Every time he looked at her, it felt like he was reading between her words.

And Riya?

She was slowly, quietly falling apart.

One evening, she was in the hospital garden, sitting on a bench with her journal — not the anonymous one, the real one — when she sensed someone approach.

She didn't look up.

She didn't have to.

"Peaceful out here," Shubman said, sliding onto the bench beside her.

She glanced sideways, her voice level. "Didn't expect you today."

He shrugged. "Wasn't planning to come."

"And yet, here you are."

"Maybe I was hoping for a story," he said.

She stilled.

He smiled, but his eyes were serious.

"Maybe," he continued, "I was hoping the girl who writes like she sees the world from behind glass... might let me see her too."

She turned toward him then — fully. The air between them taut, like stretched strings waiting to snap.

"You're convinced it's me," she whispered.

"I'm not guessing anymore, Riya."

His voice wasn't confrontational. It was... kind. Too kind.

"And if it is?" she asked, barely audible.

He didn't speak for a long moment.

Then he leaned in, elbows on his knees, voice soft.

"Then I'd want to know why you chose silence over chance."

The question split something inside her.

Because she didn't know how to explain the years she'd spent loving him from afar. The safety of distance. The ache of anonymity. The unbearable hope that if he ever did see her, it wouldn't be through the lens of a fan... but through the soul of a girl who simply felt too much.

So she said nothing.

She stood up.

And left.

That night, she wrote. Not on the blog. In her journal. With ink that smudged under trembling hands.

"He knows.
And worse — he's not angry. He's gentle. Curious. Kind.
It would've been easier if he hated me.
But he's giving me space to speak.
And I don't know if I'm brave enough to take it."

Meanwhile, Shubman sat in the backseat of his car, staring out at the night traffic, her voice still echoing in his ears.

"And if it is?"

He didn't know what answer he expected.

But her silence was louder than any confession.

She was the girl. He knew it in his bones now.

He'd read too many of her thoughts, memorized too many of her metaphors.
He'd felt her in her writing before he ever knew her face.

And now that he had — now that he'd met the woman behind the poetry — he wasn't sure if he was chasing her or falling toward her.

Maybe both.

The next day, Riya entered her office to find a note on her desk.

No name. No handwriting she recognized.

Just a simple line on a folded sheet of paper.

"Some truths aren't meant to be hidden behind initials. I'm still listening, whenever you're ready."

Her fingers trembled around the paper.

She didn't cry.

But she closed the door behind her and sat for a long time, staring at the words.

He wasn't forcing her hand.

He was giving her a choice.

A rare, terrifying, beautiful choice.

That night, she sat at her laptop again. The blog page open.

The world waiting.

And slowly, painfully, she typed.

lettersillneversend.blog
Posted anonymously. 11:59 PM.

To the boy who waited at the edge of my silence,

I was afraid of being seen.

Because the version of me you've met is nothing like the girl who's been writing to you for years.
She's softer. Messier. Braver in words than in person.
She hides behind metaphors because she doesn't know how to stand tall in front of someone she loves.

Yes.

It's me.

I've written every line with shaking hands and a foolish heart.

But now... if you still want to hear me — not through a screen, but standing right in front of you — I'll speak.

I don't know if I deserve the chance.

But I'm willing to take it.

Because I think I'm done writing letters I'll never send.

—Riya

And miles away, Shubman read her name.

For the first time.

Not whispered.
Not hinted.
Not hidden behind initials.

Just her.

Riya.

And he smiled like someone who had just found a page of his story he didn't know was missing.