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It’s been five hours since Kabir left for his IAS training. His flight to Dehradun took off this morning, and we all went to see him off, trying to smile through the heaviness sitting quietly in our hearts. I kept waving until he disappeared beyond the security gate, holding onto the last glimpse of him like it would somehow make the distance smaller.

Now I’m temporarily staying at my myka, just next door to my sasural. Kabir had strictly warned everyone not to let me sleep alone there while he’s away. He knows me far too well — he said I’d end up missing him and crying the whole night. And honestly, he is 101% correct.

The house feels quieter without his voice, without the little routines we didn’t even realize had become our comfort. Every corner reminds me of him — the way he laughs, the way he calls my name, the way he makes everything feel safe.

I keep telling myself this is just the beginning of his journey, something we’re both proud of. Still, my heart keeps counting the days already. I miss him in the simplest moments, and maybe that’s what love really is — learning to hold someone close, even when miles come in between

A little while ago, my phone finally lit up — Kabir’s name on the screen. He had landed safely. My heart felt lighter instantly, like I could breathe properly again. He told me to have dinner on time and not skip it like I usually do when I’m upset. I smiled reading that — even miles away, he’s still taking care of me. He said he’d text again once he reaches the training center and settles in. Now I’m just waiting for that message, holding my phone a little closer, feeling comforted knowing he’s safe and thinking of me too.

A soft knock pulled me out of my thoughts. Shivika bhabhi peeked into my room with her usual gentle smile and told me dinner was ready. I honestly didn’t feel like eating at all — the emptiness felt heavier than hunger — but I knew I couldn’t refuse. If I skipped dinner, my traitor family, especially Shivika bhabhi, would definitely report it to Kabir, and then I’d get a long lecture from him.

Not that I’d mind it today. I’m missing him so much that even his scolding would feel like comfort.

So I quietly walked to the dining table, trying to act normal. Every bite felt slow, like my heart wasn’t really there. Usually I’d tease him or pretend to be stubborn, but now I can’t even get mad or ignore him — distance has a strange way of softening everything.

I just sat there, eating silently, wishing he was across the table like always.

After dinner, I returned to my room, carrying that familiar heaviness in my chest. The silence felt louder than usual, like every second was reminding me he wasn’t here. I tried to distract myself, deciding I’d at least prepare the question paper for the 10th pre-boards — something to keep my mind busy. But as soon as I sat down, I realized my iPad wasn’t with me. I had left it in my bedroom… at my sasural.

I hesitated for a moment, then quietly walked next door. The corridor lights were dim, casting soft shadows on the walls. Each step felt slow, almost careful, like I was entering a memory instead of a room. I pushed the bedroom door open gently.

The first thing I noticed was the faint, sweet fragrance in the air.

On the table, under the warm glow of the lamp, sat a small rose plant — fresh, vibrant, its petals perfectly open as if they had been waiting just for me. Beside it lay a folded note. My heartbeat picked up. I knew that handwriting anywhere.

My fingers trembled slightly as I opened it.

“Hi mera bachha, my jaan, my babu… I know when you get this note I won’t be there with you. So first wipe those tears and smile, please.”

A tiny laugh escaped me through the tears already blurring my vision.

“I know you’re missing me, so here’s the rose plant for you. You remember last night I plucked roses from your plant to decorate our balcony bed night? Your cheeks are still the same shade as this rose… so cherish it.”

I instinctively touched my cheek, then the soft petals, feeling an odd warmth spread through me.

“When I come back, I want you to decorate our room again with your cherished plant. I love you, my whole world. I know this is long distance for both of us, so why not cherish it in the sweetest way? And yes, there’s chocolate for my sweet-tooth baby Ruhaani.”

I glanced beside the pot and smiled, spotting the neatly placed chocolate.

“I’ll come soon, my jaan. Till then, write me letters, okay? We’ll read them together when I'll be back. Take care. Your Kabir only yours.”

I pressed the note against my heart, closing my eyes. The room was still quiet, still em Kabir yet it didn’t feel lonely anymore. In that moment, through a plant, a letter, and a little chocolate, he had filled the space with his presence, turning distance into something soft, patient, and full of love.

The night had settled into that quiet softness where even the smallest sounds feel louder. I was sitting by the window, the rose plant placed carefully beside me, when my phone finally buzzed. Kabir’s name lit up the screen, and my heart instantly felt lighter.

I answered quickly. “Hello…”

His voice came through, tired yet warm. “Mera bachha… did you eat? And did you smile like I told you?”

I smiled unconsciously. “Maybe a little. And yes, I got your surprise.” My eyes drifted to the plant. “The rose is beautiful, Kabir. I kept touching the petals like they’d tell me something from you.”

He chuckled softly. “I knew you’d find it. I wanted you to have something alive, something that grows… just like us.”

I leaned back against the headboard. “Tell me everything. How is it there?”

He exhaled, and I could almost picture him looking around his new surroundings. “The Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy of Administration is huge, jaan. The campus is surrounded by hills, and the air feels so fresh. From my room I can see the lights of Mussoorie at a distance. Today was mostly orientation — meeting people, understanding the schedule, visiting the labs and lecture halls. It’s strict, but exciting too.”

His voice carried a mix of pride and exhaustion, and I felt proud listening to him.

“I wish I could see it,” I said softly.

“You will,” he replied. “Someday I’ll show you every corner.”

I glanced at the rose again. “You know what I’ve been thinking?”

“Hm?”

“These three months… I don’t want them to feel empty. I want to make them memorable. I’m planning to add more plants near the window — maybe jasmine, maybe tulsi… so every day something new grows while you’re away.”

There was a small pause, the kind filled with quiet emotion.

“That sounds perfect,” he said gently. “When I come back, I want to see how you turned waiting into something beautiful.”

“And I’ll write you letters,” I added. “Real ones. So when you read them, it feels like I’m sitting next to you.”

He laughed softly. “Deal. I’ll keep them safe.”

For a moment neither of us spoke, just listening to each other breathe — the distance still there, but softer now, wrapped in plans, promises, and the comfort of knowing we were growing through it together.

“Good night, my jaan, you have school tomorrow ” he whispered. I'll call you tomorrow okk text me when you feel I'll reply okk " He said

“Good night,” I replied, holding the phone close, the rose beside me quietly blooming through the silence.

I finally decided to sleep, even though the night felt unusually long. The bed felt bigger, emptier. Instinctively, I reached for the teddy lying beside me — the one Kabir once teased me about, saying it would replace him whenever he’s not around.

I pulled it close, hugging it tightly, resting my cheek against its soft fur. It wasn’t the same, of course — it didn’t breathe, didn’t hold me back — but it gave just enough comfort to quiet the restlessness.

“It’s only been a few hours,” I murmured softly, half-smiling at myself. “And I’m already behaving like a child. How am I going to manage three whole months?”

The room stayed silent, the kind of silence that makes you hear your own thoughts louder. I squeezed the teddy a little more, imagining his arms, his warmth, the way he’d always pull me closer without a word.

“Okay… let’s sleep,” I whispered to the teddy, closing my eyes.

Slowly, wrapped in memories and a little borrowed comfort, sleep began to find me — soft, hesitant, but kind enough to stay.

In shlok and shivika room

Shivika was buried in her assignment, eyes fixed on the laptop screen, when Shlok walked in quietly with a glass of warm haldi milk. He placed it gently on the table, then leaned closer, pressing his palm to her forehead.

“What is this?” he frowned. “I told you not to go to college today. See, you have a fever.”

She sighed, still trying to focus. “I know… but it’s an important week. Companies are coming for placements. I can’t take leave, you know that.”

He nodded, understanding but firm. “Yes, I know it’s important. But health comes first. Now take your medicine — and this milk Maa sent. She told me you refused.”

Shivika made a face. “Medicine I’ll take… but not the milk. I’m feeling nauseous, so—”

Before she could finish, a wave of nausea hit. She rushed to the washroom. Shlok followed instantly, holding her hair back and rubbing her back gently.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

She just held his hand weakly. He helped her rinse her face, then carried her back to the bed and made her sit.

“Now you’re taking medicine and resting,” he said firmly but gently. “And tomorrow we’re going to the doctor — no arguments. Clear?”

She looked at him, tired but comforted, and gave a small nod.

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