Even after months had passed, memories of Isha still found their way back to Tripti. A familiar place, an old photograph, or even a simple song could leave her chest feeling unbearably heavy. And every time her parents compared her to others or told her she wasn't enough, those wounds reopened. She smiled through it all, but inside, she was fighting battles no one could see.

Her grades slowly began to fall, not because she had stopped trying, but because her mind was exhausted. She would open her books, only to find herself staring at the same page for hours. The pressure at home, the pain of losing Isha, and the weight she carried every day left her drained. Yet, she never told anyone. She feared they would call it an excuse instead of understanding it was a silent struggle.

Some nights, Tripti cried herself to sleep without making a sound. By morning, she wore the same smile everyone expected. Her classmates saw an ordinary girl, her teachers saw a distracted student, and her family saw someone who "needed to work harder." No one noticed how much strength it took just to get through each day. She carried every fear and every tear alone, hoping tomorrow would somehow feel lighter.

Aalankrit noticed the change before anyone else did. The girl who once answered every question now sat quietly, lost in thought. He couldn't erase her pain, but he refused to let her face it alone. Sometimes, he would simply sit beside her in silence, because he understood that not every wound needed advice. Some hearts begin to heal only when they know someone is willing to stay, even without being asked.

There were days when Tripti wanted to tell someone everything—the panic, the sleepless nights, the constant fear of never being enough. But each time she opened her mouth, the words disappeared. She had grown used to hiding her pain behind an "I'm fine." And the more she hid it, the more everyone believed she truly was. Sometimes, the loudest cries are the ones that are never spoken aloud.

One evening, as Tripti packed her bag in silence, a sudden wave of panic hit her. Her hands trembled, her breathing became uneven, and tears gathered before she could stop them. She tried to hide it like always, but this time, someone noticed. Aalankrit didn't ask questions or force her to speak. He simply stayed beside her until her breathing slowed, reminding her through his presence that she wasn't completely alone anymore.

That day changed something between them. Tripti still carried the same pain, and Aalankrit still couldn't take it away. But from then on, whenever the world became too heavy, she knew there was at least one person who wouldn't judge her, compare her, or ask her to be stronger than she already was. Sometimes, healing doesn't begin with answers—it begins with feeling safe enough to fall apart.