Evening had wrapped itself around the garden like a warm, familiar shawl. The sun was gentler now—less aggressive, more golden. Most of the crowd had thinned out by then, as it always did. The garden at this hour belonged only to those who truly loved its quiet.

And then came Kavya.

She arrived without a minute’s delay, as if she’d been counting down the seconds to be here. But today, something about her was different. Brighter. More alive. Her presence carried a kind of joy that was hard to describe, like newly bloomed rose that had just opened under the day’s softest light.

There was a lightness in her steps as she moved—half skipping, half floating. She was wearing a soft floral frock, the fabric breathing with the wind, and her hair was open, wild, flowing behind her like it, too, had something to celebrate.

She didn’t even glance around the garden.

Her eyes were set on one thing—the bench.

Or rather, the diary.

She made her way to the bench as if the garden had shrunk to only that one spot—her bench, their bench—and without even pausing to catch her breath, she reached out and picked up the diary. As if it had been waiting. As if it might vanish if she hesitated even for a heartbeat.

She sat down gently, like someone arriving at a place they secretly missed even after a single day.

Her bag was placed beside her with careless ease, but her hands—those betrayed her urgency. In a quick yet careful motion, she reached for the diary. But she didn’t turn straight to the end this time. No—she started from the beginning.

Page by page, her fingers moved like a slow breeze rustling through leaves. She’d read every word before—just yesterday, in fact—but today, it felt different. She wasn’t reading to find something. She was reading to feel something. Like visiting an art gallery you’ve already seen, just to stand again in front of a piece that made you pause.

She smiled once or twice at a few lines, let her fingers trace a margin where a pen had pressed too hard. And then… she reached the last page.

Her eyes landed gently at first, scanning the familiar handwriting.
And then they stopped.

No new entry.

Just her words from yesterday, sitting quietly beneath her small, hesitant signature.

Her breath caught— in that soft, hollow kind of pause when your heart realises something your mind hadn’t prepared for. Her smile faded, slowly, like sunlight slipping behind a cloud.

She didn’t know how to react. Disappointment? Worry?

She sat there, still, for several minutes. Staring at the page. Waiting for it to change, as if somehow, if she looked long enough, words might magically appear.

With a quiet sigh, she placed the diary beside her—neatly and reached into her bag. Her laptop came out next, the screen lighting up with all the open tabs and assignments waiting to be done. Her fingers hovered over her keyboard, but the words on the screen had already faded into background noise. The soft tap of keys had slowed, then stopped altogether. She tried to focus, tapping a few keys, scrolling mindlessly.

But every few minutes… her eyes drifted.

Back to the diary.

Thoughts began to spiral but

She would blink hard, shake her head lightly, and turn back to her work.
But the loop repeated. Again and again. Like a song that kept skipping back to the same line.

She glanced again at the diary beside her.

She frowned gently, more at herself than the book. Why was she like this right now? Why had her mood shifted so drastically, all because a stranger hadn’t written a few lines in a diary?

That thought echoed inside her for a long second.

A stranger.
Because that’s what he was, wasn’t he?

She didn’t even know what Mayan looked like. She had no idea what his voice sounded like, what kind of laugh he had, or what his favourite street in the city was. She only knew his handwriting—soft, a little shy, like it hesitated before making a point—and the way his poems always seemed to be listening as much as they were speaking.

And yet… the weight in her chest didn’t budge.

She couldn’t explain it. Couldn’t name it.
It was just—something missing.

Her mind, as if sensing the gap, filled it with every question possible.

Why didn’t he write today?
Was he okay?
Was he busy?
Did he decide he didn’t want to keep up this strange, exchange anymore?
But if he didn’t want to keep up this exchange then why he left the diary here ?

Another, thought crept in.

What if he was not here today ?

And then—just as quickly—came the part that truly tangled her thoughts:

If Mayan wasn’t here today… why anyone didn’t collected his diary like last time ?

Why?

Her thoughts refused to sit still. They leapt from one possibility to another like restless birds. Her logical mind tried to quiet them—“It’s nothing. Just a skipped day. Don’t overthink”—but her heart wasn’t so easily convinced.

It wasn’t just about the diary.

It was about what had started to form between the pages. Between the pauses. Between her and someone she didn’t even know.

By now, it had become nearly impossible to focus.

Her fingers hovered above the keyboard, but her thoughts were everywhere except on the screen. So with soft sigh, she gave up the illusion of productivity. She closed her laptop gently, the screen fading to black as if sharing her mood, and began packing her things.

Then, without thinking too much but with a certain quiet care, she placed it back the diary where she’d found it, nestled into the corner of the bench beneath the worn-out shade of the neem tree.

She stood for a moment before turning away. The garden was still caught in that in-between hour—too late for afternoon, too early for evening. The sky was pale, holding on to its last bit of heat, the sun still lingering somewhere above the trees.

Usually, Kavya stayed longer.

She liked how the light softened. How the garden changed color. How the breeze returned.

But today, she left before all that.

Her footsteps were slower than usual as she walked toward the exit, one hand brushing lightly against her bag strap, the other swinging free. As she stepped through the gate and disappeared into the outside world, the bench stood quietly behind her, carrying only a diary and a space that had grown used to her presence.